Chapter Twenty Five.
De Talione.
“There is gratitude left in the world.”
Herbert Raynier was lying in the damp and pitchy gloom of his dungeon, sleeping as soundly and as peacefully as though he were not to be led forth and beheaded with the rising of the morrow’s sun. That last interview had calmed and soothed him, and now his slumbers were bright—for he was amid beautiful scenes, far away, and Hilda was beside him. Then he started up—and with the first flash of awaking consciousness came the thought that the time had come, and the hand that had dropped on his shoulder in the darkness was that which should lead him forth to his doom.
“There is gratitude left in the world.”
The words were uttered softly, and—in good English. Was he dreaming? But immediately a shaded light rendered things visible. Hands were busy about his shackles, and lo! they fettered his ankles no more.
“I have come to save you, brother,” went on the whispered voice. “If you obey me implicitly you will be free immediately. Put on these, and until I give leave, do not speak so much as one little word.”
Raynier obeyed him in both particulars. In a moment or two he was arrayed in the white loose garments and turban of the border tribes. For the other injunction, he whispered but one name,—
“Shere Dil Khan?”
“Yes. Now—silence.” Following his guide, to Raynier it seemed they were traversing endless and labyrinthine passages. With something of a shudder he recognised that horrible door through which he had passed during those acute moments of living death, then the Sirdar opened another door, and the cool free air of the desert, blowing upon them, told that they were outside the walls.