They stood by the door in silence, then gazing out into the garden, where a spearman stood at the gate, and the rest of the guard sat about mechanically chewing their betel-nut and sirih-leaf, apparently heedless of the prisoners’ presence, but ready to start into action on the instant.
Mr Greig joined them, and the day wore on in sorrow and despair, for their position seemed to be absolutely hopeless, and it was nothing to them that the sun shone down from the pure blue sky on the gorgeous vegetation, whose leaves seemed to shed silver beams of light down amongst the dark shade beneath. Plan after plan was suggested and referred to the ladies, who also made proposals. But the result was always the same. They acknowledged that the rajah, with his Eastern cunning, had checkmated them, and that nothing could be done but wait.
As the day wore on, the doctor’s servants went about their work as usual, and Tim Driscol brought in the mid-day meal, and stood looking on in despair to find it untouched.
“Oh, Miss Amy, dear,” he whispered, “my heart’s bruk intirely to see your pretty eyes all swelled up and red like that. What’ll I do, darlin’? Say the word, and if it’s to slay and kill him, I’ll go.”
“Don’t—don’t talk to me, Tim,” she whispered, with the tears flowing fast.
“Not talk to ye—me who carried ye when ye were only half the size ye are! I’ll go to the masther, thin.”
With the freedom of an old servant, he went out to where the doctor was seated in the veranda, so as to avoid seeing the sad faces within.
“Oh, masther, dear,” he said, “what’s to be done?”
“I wish I could tell you, Tim.”
“It makes a man’s heart sore, sir, to see the misthress and her frinds looking like that.—Mr Braine, sir, begging your pardon for intrudin’, it’s only bekase I want to help. Wouldn’t a good fight set it straight, bekase if so, I’m your man.”