There was no fear; none! Was not Jân-Ali-shân-sahib--he pointed into the night--there to be reckoned with still? And had it been possible during that nine long months for any black face--even Mohubbut's, which had remained outside after he had put the mem inside--to win in to the Garden Mound?
So, hovering between past and present, the old man who had been 'khânsâman to Ricketts-sahib bahadur who was killed,' chattered of safety----
Until the Garden Mound was reached, and then----
Then he stood in the dim moonlight--helpless--bewildered--importance gone! For where was safety, where was Jân-Ali-shân?
Ruins, and flowers! Only one thing as it had been forty years before.
The English flag!
He headed straight for it comforted, the importance returning. 'The mem-sahiba need have no fear,' he muttered glibly; 'was not Mohubbut khânsâman to Ricketts-sahib bahadur who was killed?--but the mem was not. Ah! no!'
Yet, once more, the wide ruined doorways of the Residency upset the unstable balance of the half-crazy old man's confidence. But only for a moment. The next, he had lost even importance in quick decision, as the sound of running footsteps, of men's voices, rose against the background of faint elusive cries and distant disturbance which had been with them, fitfully, in their flight.
'Quick, Huzoor, quick! they come! Have no fear! The mem was never killed! yet they came before!'
And Viva, tarlatan in ribbons, almost fainting with fear, followed blindly; then sank behind a heap of stones that lay--part of a ruined stair--in the lowest story of the turret.