Driven from the precincts of the English quarter by Mrs. Samptor's
remarks, Mr. Rayner resolved to lurk about the jungly scrub till his
train was due; but finding this retreat increasingly dreary in the
gathering darkness, he felt possessed with a desire to see a little of
the possible happenings in the crowded streets of the native town.
"No danger of a respectable old amah like me being molested," he assured
himself. Besides, he was again feeling very hungry, and decided that he
must try to secure an evening meal.
On emerging from the wood, he noticed with surprise that the darkening
sky was becoming suffused by a reddish glow, and suddenly a tongue of
flame shot up from the town.
"They're firing something! Surely it's not the mosque? The Mahomedans
will be beside themselves with fury. By Jove! I only hope it's Zynool's
house--and him in it!" muttered Rayner with a chuckle.
A wild chorus of shouts and shrieks was now borne on the still evening
air, and more flames leapt up into the sky.
"I declare I'm tempted to creep a little nearer and see the fun! Not a
soul will heed an old woman in the scrimmage!"
Rayner began to walk on steadily as fast as his unshod feet would carry
him. When he reached the narrow streets of the old town, he found that
all were literally packed with human beings. It was a weird though
picturesque scene, the rich variegated colours of the Eastern robes and
turbans making a seething mass, lit up by many waving torches, jostling
and pressing on one another in a state of wild ferment. One of the
Mahomedan processions had come in contact with a company of Hindus who,
with much tom-toming and blowing of conchs, were trying to make their
way to the river-side to perform the burning ceremonies of a dead dhobie
woman, and were using the occasion to incite their rivals by every means
in their power. Some conspirators had fired the mosque, which was not
long in bursting into flame. The rage of the Mahomedans knew no bounds
when they saw their holy place being ruthlessly destroyed by the
devouring flames. The lurid light from the blaze was shed upon the
combatants in their fierce conflict.
Rayner crept on to the outskirts of the struggling mass. Through the
smoke and glare he presently caught sight of some figures on horseback,
who seemed to be trying to stem the onset of the foes. The Jailer's
square shoulders were visible as he moved hither and thither, seeking to
inspire the craven native police with some zeal and courage in the
performance of their duty. Then he obtained a glimpse of Mark Cheveril,
on foot, in grips with an evil-looking Hindu, whom he had caught in the
act of throwing a Mussulman child into the burning mosque, not the only
one permitted to perish on that fearful night. This Hindu would commit
no more murders that evening, for the Jailer was now superintending his
being manacled and led off to custody. Then Rayner perceived the
Collector in the thick of the fight. He was still on horseback, and at
the moment was trying to stem the advance of a party of desperate
Mahomedans, who were advancing with weapons of destruction on a surging
mass of Hindus.
The Mahomedans came on with yells of "Deen! Deen! They have defiled our
holy house! They have burned our mosque! Our children have been flung to
the flames! Deen! Deen!"
"Ha, Worsley's going to catch it at last!" muttered Rayner, in growing
excitement. "His Mussulman lambs will prove too much for him!"
The Collector was alternately addressing the crowd in fluent Hindustani
and Tamil, his face transfigured by intense emotion, the whole spirit of
the British Raj flashing in his eyes. With one hand he restrained his
restive mare, the other was raised as he called now in Tamil to the
Hindus:
"Back, men, back! To your homes, every man of you!"
Then, turning to the assaulting mob again, he called in their own
tongue: "Mussulmans, your wrongs will be righted. Rely on the sword of
justice. Take not vengeance into your own hands. If one of you advance a
step it will be through my body!"
A murmur of something like admiration and assent ran through the serried
mass. The fierce, dark faces in the foremost ranks softened as they
watched the intrepid figure, and listened to his ringing words; but
others behind still pressed forward with cries of "Deen! Deen!"
Rayner was surprised that at this critical juncture, when the surging
crowd threatened to overpower him, the Collector found the presence of
mind to look at his watch. He soon understood the reason. A great shout
suddenly arose from the Hindus, who were swarming up from the river to
the railway station, some having fled there in the hope of finding a
refuge from the Mahomedan fury; and through the parting crowd he now
descried "the thin red line." Yes, it was a detachment of British
soldiers from Fort St. George that had been requisitioned by the
Collector, mainly at Mark Cheveril's urgent representations. He was
relieved now that he had permitted the telegraphic request to summon
them, and had been consulting his watch to see if they were due.
On swept the gallant red-coats, greeted by cheers both from
Mahomedans and Hindus, each claiming that they had come to be their
defenders. Jubilant shouts rent the air, though by some they were
undistinguishable from the resounding yells of the rioters. One of these
with his party was now making his way up the street at the corner of
which Alfred Rayner happened to be standing.
"Ha!" he laughed. "Here comes Zynool. He's not going to be cowed by the
Collector. Now we shall have some fun!"
The Mahomedan was mounted on a huge horse, which Rayner at once
recognised as one of his own Australians. It was a powerful animal and
stood higher than the Collector's Arab, and was evidently too fresh from
want of exercise. It champed at its foam-bespattered bit, and tossed its
head, seeming to resent Zynool's tight rein.
"Didn't think a native could have managed Abdul so well!" thought
Rayner, as he looked with admiration on the portentous rider, who was
made more colossal in size by reason of the padded green coat he had
donned in spite of the heat.
He was flanked by a following of his own people. Someone behind him rode
the other Australian, and it was evident that neither Zynool nor his
party were in a mood to receive any check from the Collector.
Owing to the pressure in front, the riders were forced back, so that
quite unexpectedly Rayner found himself in closer proximity to his enemy
than he quite relished. He began to push back, trying to disappear round
the corner into the street at right angles to the one in which he stood,
when a terrified Hindu, seeking to clear a passage for himself, all at
once thrust him forward, till he almost fell against the Australian
horse and its rider.
"Out of my way, you old Hindu sow," growled Zynool, kicking the supposed
ayah.
"Have a care, sahib," said a more kindly bystander, "she's only an old
ayah. Go home, old woman, this is no place for you!"
Zynool cast a glance on the cowering form, thinking he had done it more
injury than he had meant. The light from one of the oil-lamps fell sheer
on Rayner's face. In a moment the plethoric voice of the Mahomedan
changed to a low, hissing sound.
"Thou! Thou! Trapped, by Allah! This is a prize better than any Hindu!"
For an instant, Rayner gazed on the man he had wronged with
terror-stricken eyes, then he made a desperate plunge to strike away.
Zynool saw the movement, and determining his prey should not escape, he
urged his horse forward and deliberately set it to trample down his
enemy, who fell before the onset and made no attempt to rise.
"Seize him! Seize him!" cried Zynool to the men on foot behind him,
though indeed he had already made sure his enemy could not escape. "It's
no ayah, 'tis mine enemy, La'yer Rayner!"
In spite of his disguise, the face of the fugitive was not difficult to
recognise, for the heat of the day had partially erased the stain which
Hester's fingers had so cleverly applied.
There was, however, one witness of the scene unsuspected by Zynool. The
Assistant-Collector's eye had been upon the Mahomedan ever since he
appeared in the fray, knowing him to be one of the most dangerous of the
agitators, and fearing lest he should approach the Collector. His
attention had been attracted some minutes previously by the old ayah in
the red saree standing at the street corner; he wondered what she did
there at such a time. Suddenly, to his horror, he saw the Mahomedan on
his great horse deliberately charge her, knock her down, and ruthlessly
trample on her prostrate form.
He did not hesitate a moment. Forcing his way through, he seized the
horse's bridle.
"Zynool Sahib, dismount," he commanded, with flashing eyes. "I am
witness to your felling down that old woman. I put you under arrest.
Dismount, I say."
To his surprise, Zynool meekly prepared to obey, and with the assistance
of one of his party reached the ground. The man who had been ordered to
drag away the unconscious form of the ayah stood riveted to the spot on
the appearance of the English sahib.
"I would speak one word," said Zynool, coming close to Mark Cheveril's
ear. "'Tis no ayah, 'tis La'yer Rayner, a forger, flying from justice in
a woman's petticoats. See, sahib, if I speak not the truth!"
Mark felt impelled to draw a step nearer the prostrate form while Zynool
stood watching his every movement with a sardonic expression. He bent
over the huddled heap in the red saree, and recognised the face of
Hester's husband. Almost at the same moment, one of the natives caught
sight of the white knees under the disordered draperies and burst into a
loud laugh.
"A _feringhi_, by the holy Prophet! Not an ayah at all!"
A dozen voices around echoed in amazement, "A _feringhi_?" Zynool looked
on with silent contempt.
It was a terrible moment for Mark Cheveril, but his presence of mind did
not forsake him. He felt the call to be paramount even when so much else
was at stake. He raised his voice and shouted: "Samptor!"
The Jailer heard the call above the discordant yells around him. Fearing
that the Assistant was in danger, he forced his way to him, his stalwart
limbs standing him in good stead.
"I give this man in charge," said Cheveril sternly, pointing to Zynool,
whose countenance became black with rage and fear. "Saw him with my own
eyes trample down this--this victim," he added, pointing to the
motionless form at his feet.
Leaving Zynool in the strong grip of the representative of authority,
Mark turned his attention to the injured man. A stretcher was hastily
improvised from the remains of an outside shutter that dangled from a
window hard by. Two Hindus who recognised the Assistant-Collector
volunteered their help. Lifting the prostrate form, they carried it to
the Dispensary, which, fortunately, was at the end of the street, and
more fortunately still, the cavalcade was met by Dr. Campbell. The place
was already full of the wounded brought in from the fray. A brief
explanation sufficed, and Rayner's helpless form was carried to a
mattress in a corner of the large room.