Here was a loophole. Raynier thought of what he had undergone, of how completely he was in the power of this unsparing and vengeful people; of the horrors he had witnessed, and of what might be in store for himself. He thought of Hilda Clive, and how life might hold out for him a long vista of its fairest and brightest, and the temptation was great. But he thought, too, on the opinions he had more than once expressed when discussing such “conversions,” and how they were dishonouring to the British name. He was not an ostentatiously religious man, but when it came to forswearing Christianity, the line had to be drawn. So he answered,—
“I could not do that, for it would be to forswear myself. I honour your religion, but were I to profess it I should be speaking a lie.”
Now, while he said this, Raynier’s eye had rested on something—something that was in the hand of the man who had spoken last. It was a malacca cane.
The blood rushed wildly through his being. He stared at the thing. There it was, a stout, silver-topped malacca cane—a very unwonted article in the hand of a white-clad, turbaned Gularzai. Heavens! what did it mean? He stared at the man who carried it—a tall, handsome, commanding-looking representative of his race—and then his mind rushed back from the stronghold of the Chief of the Gularzai, to the shouting, roaring, riotous mob in the heart of the city of London. And this was the man he had rescued from its uproarious violence.
“Do you not remember me, brother?” he said, in English, his heart seeming to burst in the revulsion of returning hope. “That is the stick I armed you with when you were beset by numbers. Look! In the middle of it is the dent made by the falling iron which would otherwise have crushed your head in.”
He stopped short. No flash of recognition lit up the features of the Gularzai, not the faintest sign even of having understood. He paused. Then he said, in Pushtu,—“Who is yon sirdar, Nawab Sahib?”
“Shere Dil Khan. He is my son.” The answer was curt and cold. Raynier went on,—
“If my father put thy brother to death, Nawab Sahib, I saved the life of thy son, Shere Dil Khan. The dent in that stick was made by the iron which would have crushed his head. Upon the knob are the letters of my name. May I handle it for a moment? It is not a weapon—and, am I not chained?”
The man who held it stepped forward and placed it in his hand. As he did so, with his face close to the prisoner, Raynier recognised him completely. It was the man he had rescued in the midst of the rough and exasperated crowd. But for all the recognition on the face of the other it might have been a mask.
Raynier took the stick. One glance at it was sufficient. There, on the massive silver head, were intertwined the letters H.R.—his initials.