All this time the nawab was quietly smoking his hookah on the veranda. He left all such matters to his porter, but inasmuch as he heard every word that passed, he saw that his personal attention was needed. Rising from his lounging chair, he walked slowly forward and asked what was the matter,—as though he did not know anything about the cause of dispute.
The two leaders, who were talking angrily with the porter, used few words in making their business known. The nawab was shrewd enough to see that the easiest way out of the trouble was to compromise.
"I cannot have the crowd trampling through my grounds," said he, removing his hookah from between his lips; "but I hate the Inglese and will help kill all the Christians. Select three of your men to join you two, and do you make thorough search of all the grounds, taking good care to injure nothing. I will allow no one else to come in. You five can find the Inglese, if they are here, can you not?"
"We cannot fail," replied one of the men, both of whom were pleased by the condescension of the nawab. The mob on the outside were also suited. Many of them, believing the fugitives had taken refuge elsewhere, moved down the street, those who remained scattering so as to surround, as far as possible, the inclosing wall. The moment the fugitives should be driven from the grounds and attempt to scale the high wall, these natives meant to be on hand to secure them.
The fugitives plainly heard every word spoken, and Marian translated the whole conversation. The two believed that the decision was certain death, for it was utterly impossible for five fierce fanatics to make such a search of the grounds as they were sure to do, without finding those for whom they were looking. Indeed it was hard to see how they could fail to discover them during the first few minutes of their search.
Avery and Marian were standing erect under a large mango, whose dense shadow screened them from the sight for a distance of a rod or so, but was of no use when their enemies should come within a few paces.
"I will wait right here," he said, in a low voice, "and fight until I can fight no longer. The last bullet from my revolver shall be driven through your brain."
"Save the last for yourself," whispered Marian, "and give me the last but one."
"No; I shall die fighting," was the response; "I want to carry as many of them with me as I can, and unless some unexpected slip takes place, I'll thin them out considerably."
Many a time during the sepoy mutiny was this done. More than one brave officer, when he saw the wretches swarming over the vainly defended entrenchments, shot wife and daughter and then turned his pistol upon himself. It was a mercy to his loved ones that he did so.