“Ah! tell me, tell me, where he is?” cried Flora, the opportunity occurring for the first time to speak of him since Zeemit’s appearance.
“He was safe when I left him,” answered the old woman. “Soon after leaving Meerut we were attacked in a bungalow, where we had sought shelter; but we managed to escape, and continue our journey to Delhi. We gained entrance to the city, and I soon learned from some of the Palace servants that Jewan had gone to Cawnpore. We lost no time in following him, and we arrived here last night. In yonder clump of trees,”—as the old woman spoke, she slightly raised her head, and pointed with her finger across the compound—“is a disused bullock-shed. There, on a heap of straw, you will find Mr. Gordon. He was to remain secreted until I had learned tidings of you. He was weary and footsore, and sleeping soundly when I came away.”
“But how am I to reach there unobserved?” asked Flora, scarcely able to restrain her impatience.
“I think that will be comparatively easy. Go through the room here till you gain the landing, then down the stairs until you come to the entrance-hall. The night is dark, and you may easily make your way to the bullock-shed. Once there, you and Mr. Gordon must lose no time in hurrying to the protection of the English quarters; but, if possible, fly from Cawnpore without delay, for there is an awful time coming for the place. The native troops are pledged to rise, and the Nana Sahib is thirsting for revenge.”
“God help us all out of our tribulation,” murmured Flora. “I will endeavour to carry out your directions, Zeemit, but be sure that you join us. It is against my will to leave you here, but we must bow to the circumstances that we cannot alter.”
“Go—go,” murmured Mehal; “I am old, and you are young. Join your lover, and seek safety in flight. I have no doubt we shall meet again; but be discreet. Jewan is wary, and the moment he discovers your escape, he will use every endeavour to recapture you.”
“Farewell, Zeemit,” said Flora, as she stooped and kissed the old woman, “we part in sorrow, but I trust when next we meet, it will be under happier circumstances. You have been miraculously preserved from death, and no doubt it is for some wise purpose. When we reach our English friends, I shall lose no time in sending for you.”
A hurried shake of the hands, a few final whispered words of parting, and Zeemit Mehal was left wounded and sick, lying alone under the stars; and Flora Meredith, like a timid hare, was descending the stairs.
On the various landings the natives were lying about asleep, a custom common to the servants in India, who coil themselves up anywhere. With noiseless tread, and rapidly beating heart, the fugitive picked her way amongst the sleepers, turning pale with alarm, as one moved here, and another groaned there, almost entirely holding her breath, lest even the act of breathing should awaken those whom she had such cause to dread. But after nearly half-an-hour of the most painful and intense anxiety, she stood at the main entrance of the building.