“Ay—who am I?—that is the question—a question that will never be answered. For its own works lieth every soul in pledge—my soul is pledged to silence. You have heard,” dropping her voice to a whisper that seemed to chill like an icy blast, “of—the—mutiny—ladies?”
“Yes, poor souls; and proud I am of my countrywomen.”
“I doubt—if you would be proud of me. You speak of those who stood up—ay, as I have seen them—and offered themselves to the sword—those who were butchered and slaughtered like oxen. I speak of—of—of—others—how can I tell this child?—who were carried away and lost for ever—in native life. I,” looking steadily into the girl’s eyes, “I am one of those. Lost honour—lost life—lost soul! God help me!”
A dead silence, broken only by the angry sputtering of the lamp, and then she added, in a strange, harsh voice—
“Well, I am waiting for you to spit upon me!”
“Why should I?” murmured Honor, in a whisper.
“Listen! I will put out the light, and sit here on the ground, and you shall learn my story.”
In another second the room was in utter darkness. Darkness appeared to give the stranger confidence, for she raised her voice a key, and Honor could hear every syllable distinctly.
“Thirty-four years ago I was not more than your age, but I had been married a year. We were very happy, my husband and I. He was an officer—in no matter what corps. The mutiny broke out; but we never dreamt that it would touch us—oh no, not our station! That was the way with us all. One Sunday we were all at church—I remember well; we were in the middle of the Litany, praying to be delivered from ‘battle, murder, and from sudden death,’ when a great noise of shouting and firing began outside, and people rushed, too late, to close the doors, and some were cut down—ah, I see them now”—Honor felt her shudder—“and many others and myself escaped into the belfry, whilst our husbands held the stairs. They kept the wretches at bay so long that they were out of patience, and after setting fire to the church, rushed off to the cantonments and the treasury; and then we all came down and found our carriages and ponies and syces just waiting (most of them), as usual, where we had left them. We got in and drove away at a gallop to a neighbouring rajah, to ask for his protection; but many of the men, including my husband, remained behind to try and collect some troops, and to save the arsenal and treasury. The rajah lived fifteen miles from our station—we knew him well—he came to all our sports and races. Fifty of us sought his protection, but he pretended he was afraid to shelter us, and he turned us all out the following day.
“We drove on—oh, such a melancholy cavalcade!—hoping to reach another station in safety; but, alas! ere we had gone five miles we met two native regiments who had mutinied—met them face to face. We were ordered out in turn, just as we drove up; and, as each man or woman or child alighted, unarmed, and quite defenceless, they were shot or cut down. Oh, the road—I shall never forget it—that red, red road between two crops of sugar-cane! Miss Miller—how brave she looked! just like what one pictures a martyr—she quietly stepped out and took off her hat, and never uttered word or cry as she faced her horrible death.