When, immediately on leaving his prisoner, Mushim Khan was informed that
a believer had been brought in, escorting a woman, veiled, who had come
far to communicate with him upon a matter of importance, the Nawab
betrayed no surprise, nor did the statement that the woman, although
dressed as one of their own women, was a Feringhi, elicit any, either.
He coldly directed that they should be conducted to his durbar hall,
and, accompanied by his son and Kuhandil Khan, he proceeded thither.
Hilda Clive dropped her veil as she came into the presence of the
chiefs. They returned her salaam gravely, eyeing her with the same
furtive curiosity as that which she felt with regard to them. What
stately men they were, she thought. The very simplicity of their snowy
garments and beautifully-folded turbans added a dignity from which any
barbaric splendour of jewels and colours would have detracted. So this
was Mushim Khan, she thought, instinctively recognising the Nawab. He
was indeed a noble-looking man--and, although cold and stern at that
moment, his face was not a cruel one--and the same held good of the
others. Surely she would obtain that for which she was here.
And how came it that she was here? Simply one of those strange
impressions of prevoyance to which she was at times given. It had been
borne in upon her with a vivid and startling suddenness that the missing
man was in great peril; so incisive and convincing indeed was this
impression as to dispel forthwith the idea that he was a
courteously-treated prisoner of war in the hands of a generous and
honourable enemy. She, and she alone, had power to save him. All
Orientals were fond of money, she had heard--fortunately, she had
plenty. She would literally redeem him, would buy his release, even
though it cost her every farthing she had in the world.
The plan once conceived, she lost no time in carrying it out. She said
no word about it to anybody, for fear of being interfered with, but,
leaving a note for the Tarletons, she started off with Mehrab Khan for
the Nawab's stronghold.
The Baluchi had raised no objection. He took it as quite a matter of
course that she should require him to accompany her alone into the midst
of a hostile tribe. So, having adopted the Gularzai attire and being
well armed, he had brought her in safety hither.
But now poor Hilda found herself in a quandary at the off-set. Her
knowledge of Hindustani was of the slightest, and Mehrab Khan's
knowledge of English _nil_. She could make him understand her in
ordinary matters, but as an interpreter she feared he might prove of
little use. But here aid came from an unlooked-for quarter.
"If you will allow me to be your interpreter, madam, I will strive to
convey to my father what you wish to say."
Hilda stared. It was Shere Dil Khan who had spoken, and his English was
well-nigh faultless. She thanked him, and then without waste of words
set forward the object of her visit. But it was hardly necessary for
him to interpret the Nawab's reply. She knew that it was a stern and
emphatic refusal.
"Who is this woman, and what is she to the prisoner?" asked Mushim Khan.
"Is she his wife?"
This, though more courteously rendered, brought the colour to Hilda's
face, and she replied that she was not--but only a distant relation.
She thought it was time delicately to hint at the question of ransom.
Delicately--yes--because there was that about these stately chiefs that
seemed to render the subject as difficult of approach as though they
were Europeans of social equality.
"I know that it is not unusual, Sirdar Sahib, to ransom prisoners of
war," she said. "This I am prepared with. Will a lakh of rupees
satisfy the Nawab?"
"I cannot put that to my father," said Shere Dil Khan.
"Is it not enough? Well, name your own price." Her colour came and
went, and she spoke eagerly and quickly.
"It is not that, but--"
"Well, put it, put it!" returned Hilda, unable to restrain an impatient
stamp of the foot. "Put it, I entreat you."
He looked at her hesitatingly for a moment, then complied. A change
came over the features of Mushim Khan as he listened, and his eyes
fairly blazed with wrath.
"Am I a vile Hindu trader to be approached with such an offer?" he said.
"Is the blood of my brother--the ignominy of his death--a mere question
of rupees, of a lakh more or less? Tell this woman that all the rupees
in the treasury of the _Sirkar_ for a hundred years would not redeem the
man whose father put to death with ignominy one of our house. He dies
at sunrise to-morrow. As for her, she came alone and trusting to my
protection. Praised be Allah, it shall be extended to her, and to her
attendant. Let refreshment be given her, and with my safe conduct let
her depart."
This Shere Dil Khan duly rendered. But Hilda did not move. Great tears
rose to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
"He must not die, ah--he must not die," she said. "Listen, Sirdar
Sahib. Tell the Nawab I offer him all I have in the world, five lakhs
of rupees, in redemption of this life. See, I have braved all and every
danger, and travelled alone here to save it. He is brave, he must be
generous. Oh, make him relent."
Animation made all the difference in the world to Hilda Clive's
appearance. When she was animated to this extent she was beautiful--
moreover, the Gularzai dress became her well. Shere Dil Khan looked at
her with pity and concern. But the faces of the other two remained hard
as granite.
"I have said and I have no more to say," answered the Nawab, when this
had been translated to him. "He dies at sunrise. I have sworn it. And
now, let her depart."
Hilda stood for a few moments in silence, her great eyes fixed upon the
Nawab's face. Then she said,--
"May I not see him? May I not bid him farewell? That will not break
the chief's oath."
Mushim Khan pondered for a moment and frowned. The terrible vendetta
spirit had entirely warped his nature, which was not naturally a harsh
or cruel one, rendering him utterly merciless. But he answered,--
"She can see him until the hour of prayer. Then she must depart as she
came."
Hilda thanked the Nawab, then, having directed her Baluchi escort to
wait for her there, without the loss of a moment, turned to follow Shere
Dil Khan, who had been chosen to accompany her. As they drew near the
place of Raynier's confinement he said,--
"I have been ordered to be present throughout your interview, but I will
not carry out that literally. You shall see your relation alone. This
is the place."
She entered the door he held open, then closed it behind her. She and
Herbert Raynier were alone together.
"Great Heavens!" cried the latter, sitting up and rubbing his eyes with
amazement. "Great Heavens! Hilda!"
"Yes, Hilda," she answered, her eyes brimming again.
He had never seen her like this, and down went every barrier of
conventionality. He had risen to his shackled feet, and now without
further words she was locked in his close embrace.
"How and when did they capture you?" he asked at length.
"They did not capture me: I am free."
"Free?" And his glance rested on her Gularzai attire, and seemed to
freeze.
"I am a thought reader, remember," she said, with a wan smile, as she
followed his glance. "No, it is not as you think. I put on this
disguise for safety's sake." And then, in as few words as possible, for
time was valuable, she told him of her plan, and how it had failed.
"But it has not failed," he answered emphatically. "It has given me the
sight of your dear self once more. Oh, darling, to think that you
should have undertaken such a thing--and for me. There is no other
woman under the sun who would have done it."
"Not if she--"
"Say it, say it," he urged, holding her more closely.
"Loved you. There. I will say it. I would say anything now. Listen,
Herbert, can nothing be done? Can we not bribe some of them? I have
money--plenty of it. Think quickly--time is so short. This one who
speaks English so well, the Nawab's son. Is he to be bought?"
"Oh, then he does speak English?"
"Yes. Shall I offer him what his father refused? Shall I? Shall I?"
"What did his father refuse?"
"All I am worth--five lakhs of rupees. He said a million would be
equally useless."
"Hilda! You did not do this?"
"I did. I would not have told you at any other time. But now--nothing
seems to matter. Nothing--nothing."
Words failed him, failed them both--but their understanding was
complete; even as it had been during their wanderings together. Then
nothing had been said, but every tone, every glance, had been an
understanding in itself. And time was so precious.
"Listen, Herbert. I have a plan. You shall put on my clothes, and pass
out instead of me. By stooping a little you can diminish your height.
And the veil will do the rest."
"And these?" he said, clinking his fetters.
"Ah, I forgot. Heaven help me, I forgot," she cried.
"Do you think, in any case, I would have agreed to save my precious skin
at the price of leaving you in their power? Why, Hilda, I wonder you
thought me worth stirring a finger for, at all."
She looked at him, long and earnestly and hopelessly, as though to
photograph his image in her brain. How ill he looked, pale and haggard,
and hollow cheeked. It was not much of a time for thinking of
appearances, but he felt thankful that the advantages of the Mahomedan
injunctions of cleanliness had been extended to him--a prisoner.
"Sweetheart, God bless you for coming to me at the last," he went on.
"It was grand--intrepid. Tell me, Hilda. You have known all the time
that I loved you?"
"Yes, I knew," she answered chokingly. Then, with forced gaiety, "You
did not on the voyage, though."
"Was I not a born fool? Oh, my darling, what happiness might have been
ours. What might not our lives have been but for this?"
A thought of Cynthia Daintree crossed her mind, of Cynthia Daintree
amusing herself at Mazaran, while claiming this man's bond. An impulse
came upon her to ask about that affair, but she forebore. Nothing of a
disturbing nature must come between them now. And time was so short, so
precious.
Then for a short sacred half hour they talked--and their words, uttered
on the brink of the grave of one of them, were so deep, so sacred as not
to bear intrusion. And then Shere Dil Khan's voice was heard outside,
proclaiming that the time had come for the interview to end.
"We have found our happiness only to lose it," whispered Raynier. "But
that is better than never having known it. Is it not?"
"Yes, yes--a thousand times. God bless you, O my love, my love!"
To the end of her life Hilda will never know how she tore herself from
the last close embrace. And Heaven was deaf to the cry of her widowed
soul, deaf as the polite but impassive Oriental who conducted her forth
from that chamber of heartbreak and despair.