“The Nana can see her now,” she said to herself; “there will be no change in the arrangements here.”
She at once sent out word that as soon as the Rajah was up he was to be told that she begged him to come at once.
An hour later he came to the door of the zenana.
“What is it, Poomba?” he asked; “nothing the matter with Miss Hannay, I hope?”
“I grieve to say, your highness, that she has been seized with some terrible disease. I know not what it is, for never did I see a woman so smitten. It must be an illness contracted from confinement and bad air during the siege, some illness that the Europeans have, for never did I see aught like it. She is in a high state of fever, and her face is in a terrible state. It must be a sort of plague.”
“You have been poisoning her,” the Nana said roughly; “if so, beware, for your life shall be the forfeit. I will see her for myself.”
“She has had no poison since she came here, though I know not but what she may have had poison about her, and may have taken it after she was captured.”
“Take me to her,” the Rajah said. “I will see for myself.”
“It may be a contagious disease, your highness. It were best that you should not go near her.”
The Rajah made an impatient gesture, and the woman, without another word, led him into the room where Isobel was lying. The Nana was prepared for some disfigurement of the face he had so admired, but he shrank back from the reality.