The Europeans in Sindang held themselves in perfect readiness to flee to the island for safety at a moment’s notice; and every man went armed, and every lady went about as a walking magazine of cartridges, ready for the use of husband or friend.
They were troublous times, full of anxieties, without taking into consideration the cares of the sick in body and mind.
The prisoners were secured in the little fort on the island, where Murad preserved a sulky dignity, remaining perfectly silent; and whenever an attempt was made to question him about the chaplain, he either closed his eyes, stared scornfully at his questioners, or turned his back.
Rigid watch and ward was kept, the men’s pouches were filled with ball-cartridges, and every one fully expected an attack from the people of Sindang, to rescue their Sultan, and avenge the insult of his being placed in captivity.
Among other preparations, the doctor set Mrs Bolter to work to scrape linen for lint in case of the demand exceeding the official supply; but somehow the days glided on, and there was no need for it, not a shot being fired, not a kris or spear used. The people ashore looked gloomy and taciturn, but offered no violence.
On the contrary, they seemed disposed to make advances to the daring, conquering people, who had not scrupled to seize their chief and keep him confined—they, a mere handful of people amongst thousands.
The fact was, they were completely cowed, knowing, as they did, how easily help could be procured, and how formidable that help would be.
But the English at the station could not realise this. They only knew that they were dwelling upon a volcano which might at any time burst forth and involve them in destruction; the military portion feeling certain that sooner or later an attempt would be made to rescue the Rajah.
The days glided by, and the topics of conversation remained the same—another week had passed and there had been no attack.
How was Miss Perowne—had anyone seen her?