“It is true,” said Ramzan Khan, the younger son. “We have remained loyal to the Sirkar.”
“I am from Paniwar,” continued the old Mohammedan, “but for years I was surveyor with Henry Lawrence Sahib, from Gorakhpur to Allahabad, and I swore that his people should be as my people, and that for his sake would I help any Feringhis who might be in need. He was my master and my true friend, and I loved him.”
The fierce-eyed Govind Singh walked his horse to the side of Yusuf Khan and looked him between the eyes.
“So thou art also Larens Sahib’s man?” he chuckled. “I also. Thou art an eater of beef and I an accursed infidel, yet for that we are bound by the same ties to the same master—we are brothers. Dost thou believe that he is dead?”
“Aye, I know that he is dead, alas!”
“Thou art a faint-hearted disciple, old man. He lives, I say.... Well, tell me thy story.”
The Mohammedan turned once more to the English officer and continued:
“The men, and the women also—and their abuse was the harder to bear—taunted me, called me an unbeliever and a renegade, a taker of English gold, because that I opposed the hot-heads. And then it came to pass that I did that which caused all my neighbours to hate me. We found—I and my sons—a small party of English men and women wandering about the jungle, having escaped the fate of their murdered countrymen, and we guided them safely into Agra Fort. All would have been well had I not foolishly given my name to an Englishman who asked for it, and their gratitude led them to recommend me to government for a reward. But for that my neighbours would never have known.
“And this is the reward, that we have been stoned and our lives threatened, and to save ourselves from worse we left home last night with what valuables we could bring away, and set forth for Agra.”
“But,” objected Ted, “you are going towards Delhi, not Agra.”