“Nay, Haidee, there you wrong me.”
“Sooner would I wrong myself than you; but your words remain with Haidee while your heart is far away.”
“My heart is divided, Haidee, and I give you all of it that I dare. You are my friend. Every sacrifice I can make I will make for you, if it is necessary. I will protect you with my life. I cannot do more.”
“Ah!” she sighed; “and yet you can ask me what it is that makes me sad? There is sorrow at my heart; sorrow at the thought our journey is ended, and you and I must probably part never to meet again. That is what is the matter with me.”
“Forgive me, Haidee, if I have hurt you by my seeming thoughtlessness. I assure you I had no intention of doing so. And though our journey is for the present ended, do not say we shall part for ever. You have grown precious to me as a noble, generous, devoted woman; and I vow, by all that I hold sacred, that I will endeavour never to lose sight of you as long as I live.”
She trembled with a nameless, pleasurable emotion; her nerves vibrated like unto the strings of a harp that are swept with a strong wind; for this man’s words were music to her. “I will endeavour not to lose sight of you as long as I live.” Had he not spoken them? And they sank to the deeper depths of her nature. They were like an elixir of life, given to one whose strength was ebbing away. She yearned for sympathy, and this man gave it to her. Her soul cried out for kindredship, and it found it in him. What wonder then that she should be taken captive?—that beat for beat her heart should answer his? It is given to human beings to feel the burning rapture of love, but not to solve its mystery; for it is a mystery as strange as the Sphinx of old; as unsolvable as the cosmical problems which have puzzled philosophers of all ages.
She loved him. Every look, every action, every tone betrayed that she loved him with a true woman’s pure love. If it had sprung up suddenly, it was none the less genuine or strong. She would have been content to follow him, even if he, like the fabled “Wandering Jew,” had been doomed to go on and on, restlessly and for evermore. Still would she have followed, living in his shadow, drawing her very life from his look and voice, sorrowing when he sorrowed, laughing when he laughed. Nay, more; she would have taken upon herself all the pains, however fearful, he might have had to endure. She would have rendered that last and greatest sacrifice that one human being can make for another—she would have laid down her life to save his.
It was a grand love, this love of hers—not the sickly sentiment of a wayward girl, but the strong, powerful, absorbing passion of a woman; a love as heroic as any that Homer ever sang of, or that moved the Roman women of old to follow the youths to the battle-fields, and die when they died.
Harper was a stranger in Cawnpore, but he knew that the numerical strength of the garrison was ridiculously low, and, knowing this, his heart sank as he observed unmistakable signs of coming mischief. During the journey he had been astonished at the large number of mounted natives he had met speeding along to and from Delhi, and he had no doubt that these men were spies and agents, passing backwards and forwards with news; so that he was not surprised when he found that information of his coming had preceded him to Cawnpore; and as he passed through the streets he was frequently met with the ironical question, put by some insolent native, “Holloa! how fares it with the English in Delhi?”