“We fight for the King.
“We fight for the restoration of the Mogul throne.
“We fight for the Prophet.”
“Allah be praised!” exclaimed Dhoondu, as he took the cake, and a smile of triumph lighted up his cruel face. “Success attends us,” he continued, addressing the multitude; “and the Imperial City is true to herself. We will plant the rebel standard on the Palace of the Mogul, and the House of Timour shall flourish once more. Jewan Bukht, thou art faithful, and hast performed a brave deed; the Prophet will look favourably upon thee.”
Jewan was a young man with a singularly intelligent, and, for a native, handsome face. He was a native of Meerut, and at an early age had been left an orphan. An European lady had taken him under her care, and sent him to an English school near Calcutta to be educated. When he had reached the age of twenty his protectress died, and he returned to Meerut a professing Christian, and speaking the English language fluently. Since his return he had occupied the position of a head sicar or clerk in Walter Gordon’s establishment. He had gained the esteem and confidence of his master, and had, up to a quite recent period, been in the habit of attending regularly the station church. But of late his movements had become mysterious, and he had passed much of his time in the native lines.
“I thank you, great Prince,” said Jewan, in answer to Dhoondu. “I have had a perilous journey, but I left no quarter in Delhi unvisited. Young and old there are panting for the hour to arrive when they can arise from their bondage. There is but a very small European force in the city. Delhi once secured, we can hold it against all comers.”
“And we will secure it,” added the Nana, significantly. “But come, the night wears, and we must disperse; Teeka, and you, my faithful Azimoolah, let us return with all speed to Bhitoor, and there await for the signal. Cawnpore shall be ours, and we will there wipe out our wrongs in English blood!”
He wrapped his scarf around him so as to hide his pistols and tulwar, and drawing his puggeree over his face, he passed out, attended by his followers. At a little distance a native carriage was waiting, and into this they sprang, and Meerut was speedily far behind. Then the crowd of natives quietly left the ruined temple, and soon the roofless halls were silent and deserted, and the slimy things that had sought shelter from the trampling feet, in the nooks and crannies, timidly came forth now, in search of prey, upon which they might feed so that they might live in accordance with the instinct planted by a Divine hand. But the hundreds of human beings who a little while before had held possession of the temple had also gone forth in search of prey, thirsting for blood—blood of the innocent and guilty alike—not that they might live thereby, but to gratify a burning feeling of hatred and revenge.
On the verandah of Mrs. Meredith’s bungalow stood Flora Meredith alone. It was late, or rather early, for two o’clock had just sounded from the neighbouring barracks. Flora had been vainly endeavouring to sleep, but an undefined sense of dread had kept her awake, so that at last she had risen from her couch and gone out on the verandah, glad to breathe the cool morning air. Pensively she was gazing up to the stars, which still shone clear and bright, although the first streaks of dawn were struggling to the eastern sky.
She was dreaming of the man she loved, of the man who had her heart in his keeping, whose wife she was to be. She had an intuitive perception that there was danger coming—that, to use an expressive Hindostanee phrase, “there was something in the air.” But what did that something portend, and where did the danger menace? were questions she asked herself as she stood there—a picture of loveliness—in her loose robe, and her beautiful hair flowing freely about her white shoulders.