“We do not know, my lord.”
“Is—is he dead?”
“Why should he be dead, my lord?” said the man. “Why should Murad kill him? No; he had reasons, and we know that he had him taken away with the lady—that is all.”
“But where did he imprison him?”
“Allah and our lord the Sultan only know,” said the man, impressively. “Murad was wise. When he made plans it was in his own mind, and he told them to none but the slaves who were to do his bidding. Let us free, and we may perhaps find the Christian priest. If we do, we will bring him back.”
There was nothing more to be done, and the station was relieved of the presence of a danger that seemed imminent so long as Murad was there.
The time glided on, and still there was no news of the chaplain. The Inche Maida’s home had been visited again and again, but she either did not know or would confess nothing, preserving a studied dignity, and seeming to be neither friend nor enemy now; while, this being the case, the chaplain’s absence began to be accepted as a necessity, and there were days when Mrs Barlow was the only one who mourned his loss.
“It’s mind—mind—mind,” said the doctor, as he came out of Helen’s room, over and over again; and the questioner he addressed was Neil Harley. “It’s mind, sir, mind; and until that is at rest, I see no chance of her recovery. Medicine? Bah! it’s throwing good drugs away.”
The constant attention went on, and as almost hourly the Resident or one of the officers came to inquire, there seemed to be times when Doctor Bolter did not know whether Helen or her father would be the first to pass away. He was constantly going to and fro; and after many days of suffering, when Sindang had pretty well sunk into its normal state of quietude, and Helen’s fever began to subside, it left her so weak that the doctor threw up his hands almost in despair.
“It lies with you two now, more than with me,” he said to Grey and Mrs Bolter; and with tears in their eyes, they were compelled to own their helplessness as well.