Draw Swords! In the Horse Artillery

by George Manville Fenn

Dick nodded, looked full in the man’s eyes for a moment or two, turned, and went on without a word.

The next minute he was at the entrance of a large, highly ornate, and wonderfully-carved Hindu temple, into which he passed unquestioned as one of the conquerors of the place; but, glancing round, he saw several white-robed men of the priestly caste advance to stop his follower.

“My attendant,” he said sharply in Hindustani, and the priests fell back, while from out of the gloom in front, where the outlines of a huge, elephant-headed monster towered up from floor to ceiling, a white-robed personage slowly approached, followed at a short distance by a train of a couple of dozen priests, to meet the visitor, who was taken round the building, the leader of the party speaking eagerly, and evidently striving to make himself agreeable to the young officer, who had more than once encountered him in the Rajah’s, and knew him for the chief leader of the Brahminical religion in Soojeepur.

At first he confined himself to pointing out and explaining the various objects of interest to the visitor—the many heathen gods, their names and attributes—in a frank, easy way that made his narrative highly interesting. Then he showed and described and spoke of the value of the various precious stones which adorned the great figures, all offerings from the pious for the benefit of the temple, which was extremely rich in treasures.

But by degrees, as the objects undescribed grew less, the old Brahmin’s remarks became more friendly and confidential, and he began to make allusions to their first meeting at the Rajah’s palace.

“Ah,” he said, “it is not long ago, but in a short time one learns so much. I looked upon you then—you and your brother-officers and people—as being terrible enemies of our religion. We had been told that you would come and ruin and destroy and take away all the treasures of the temple here. And then I hated you, and felt that it would be a good and pious thing to destroy all your lives, while now we have all lived to find that the treasures of the temple have been respected and remain untouched, and that the Rajah was right—that the English really are our friends.”

Dick listened and made suitable replies, and went on conversing with the smooth-tongued old Brahmin, but all the time he recalled Wyatt’s doubts and the terrible words he had heard that morning from Hanson; while, as they passed on and on through the semi-darkness, he could not help feeling how easily a blow from one of the keen Indian knives would lay him low, and how easily his body might be disposed of among the dark, labyrinthine ways of the huge temple. These thoughts, at times when they were passing through some of the most gloomy parts, were appalling; but, so sure as they came to the worst, they died out again, for he had but to glance round, and there, following him like his shadow, was the tall figure of Robert Hanson—well-armed, active, and determined—ready, if the need arose, to fight for him to the death.

Perhaps he felt the horror of his position the most when they were traversing a gallery sixty or seventy feet above the floor, one which led past the huge head and neck of the monstrous idol, and a door at the back of the figure.

For here the young officer could not help feeling how easily he might be hurled over, to fall and be dashed to pieces on the floor far below, or thrust through some one of the several openings which, for some purpose, yawned around. But, as before, there was always Robert Hanson, calm and silent, following like his shadow, and ready to give good account of any one who might venture to attack.

No one could have been more courteous than the dark-eyed, smooth, swarthy man at his side, nor more open and free in his way of speaking about the huge image and the attendant idols upon which they looked down. He seemed to wish to impress his young English companion with the idea that the temple, with its weird gloom and assumption of mystery, was merely intended to overawe the common people, and that he was too much a man of the world to expect an Englishman from his land of enlightenment to look upon all he saw as serious.