Chapter Twenty Nine.
He crossed at once to my couch, and stood looking down at me, his handsome, thoughtful face, with its dark eyes, being wonderfully familiar, as he bent over me; and as he gazed, a smile crossed his lips, and there was a look of sympathy in his countenance which was unmistakable.
But there was no smile on mine, for as I met his eyes I saw in him, in spite of his gallant bearing and gorgeous dress, the bloodthirsty traitor and schemer who had risen against us and headed the mad savages who had cut down my brother-officers and friends. He was the man, too, who held me prisoner, and my resentment was growing when, in an indistinct dreamy way, the scene in the desperate charge came back, and those moments when, half-stunned by the bullet which had struck my helmet, and of which I was not conscious then, I had been galloping away surrounded by sowars, one of whom was about to cut me down, giving me a second blow sufficient to destroy the little life left in me. And I saw it clearly now; it was this man who bent over me—this chief, all gorgeous in gold and gems, whose arm had been stretched out to save me, and had undoubtedly brought me where I was, and had me carefully tended back to life.
And with these thoughts filling my mind, I lay looking up at him angry, and yet grateful, wondering, too, at the change from the slightly clothed syce whom I had so often seen ill-used by his master, Barton; and as he watched me, I shuddered slightly, for I seemed to know that he had taken deadly vengeance upon my brother-officer in return for months of harsh treatment, insult, and wrong.
We neither of us spoke, he evidently contenting himself with watching me, and enjoying the surprise I felt at recognising him as the disguised chief—the groom no longer, but as the powerful leader of a large native force; I, in my weak state, fascinated by his peculiar smiling eyes, that were one moment haughty and fierce and full of triumph, the next beaming with friendliness.
At last he bent down on one knee, and as he did so his magnificently jewelled tulwar fell forward naturally enough from the point of the scabbard touching the carpet right between us, and he started as if the sword between us had come as a strange portent to show that we were enemies, always to be kept apart by the deadly blade.
I saw that he changed colour and hesitated, influenced by his superstitious eastern nature and education; but the next moment he laughed contemptuously, and unbuckled his jewelled belt, and threw it and the sword two or three yards away, before going down on one knee by my pillow, laying his hand upon my head and gazing intently in my eyes.
“Hah!” he ejaculated, speaking for the first time, and in excellent English. “You are getting well fast now. You are weak, but you will live and soon be well. I thought once you would die. You know me?” he added, with a smile.