They both went out from the place of concealment, and, while Haidee took up a position behind a large gun from which she could command an extensive view, and give timely warning of the approach of any of the enemy, Gordon commenced to search amongst the heaps of old rubbish that were scattered around.
It was a melancholy task, for at every step there were ghastly evidences of the fearful nature of the struggle that had been carried on so heroically by the defenders. Here was a fragment of an exploded shell, there an officer’s epaulette; a portion of a sword blade red with blood, a baby’s shoe also ensanguined, a bent bayonet, a woman’s dress, colourless and ragged, and what was more ghastly and horrible still, there was the corpse of a little baby. It had died that morning; its mother had been dead some days. In its dead hands it still held a broken doll, and on its pretty dead face a smile still lingered. Gordon picked up the ragged dress, and reverently laid it over the little sleeper.
Continuing his search, he came upon a canvas bag. It contained some salt beef and some biscuits. They had evidently been put up by one of the garrison for the journey, but in the hurry of departure had been forgotten. It was a very welcome find to Gordon, for the pangs of hunger were making themselves painfully unpleasant both in him and his companion. The bag had a string or lanyard attached to it, so that he was enabled to sling it round his shoulder.
He next entered the portion of the barrack that had been occupied by the men. Here there seemed to be nothing but ruin and rubbish. Worn-out blankets, a few old beds, some broken cups, and various other articles were strewn about. Amongst these he searched, and in one corner of the room, hidden beneath a straw mattress, he found a case containing an American revolver, and with it a leather bag filled with cartridges. He could scarcely repress a cry of joy as he made this discovery; it was the very weapon of all others likely to be most useful. The revolver was in good order, and he proceeded to load it, and, this completed, he hurried to Haidee. She was, of course, delighted with his good fortune. As it was yet too early to leave, they went back to their hiding-place and partook of some of the biscuits and beef.
About two hours afterwards they crept from the ruins. The night was quite dark. Tom-toms were being beaten in all directions, and fireworks were constantly ascending. The natives were making merry and holding high revel in honour of the victory—that is, massacre—for this was the only victory they had ever gained. Haidee and Gordon made their way stealthily along, avoiding the huts and houses, and keeping in the shadow of the trees. They reached the bridge without molestation, but as they crossed the river they were frequently eyed with suspicion by the natives who were lounging about, several of whom addressed Haidee, but she replying in their language, and saying that her companion was dumb, the Delhi road was reached, and so far they were safe.
CHAPTER XXXI. A DUEL TO THE DEATH.
Behind them was Cawnpore, a city red with the blood of slaughtered innocence, a city filled with cowardly assassins, who, in their supposed triumph, made night hideous with their drunken shouts. Before them was Delhi and the unknown future. Walter Gordon and Haidee travelled along in silence; both were occupied with their own thoughts. He was racked with many conflicting emotions; hopes and fears struggled in his breast. One moment he was inclined to think that he was going upon a very wild goose chase, the next his steps could not move fast enough to satisfy his craving desire to be at the end of the journey. More than a month since Flora Meredith had been carried over that very road, a captive, to the city of the King. What had befallen her during that month? Was it possible for her sensitive nature to have borne up against the shocks and trials to which she had been exposed? Even if she lived and was still confined in Delhi, which was an immense place, how could he hope to find her? Would it not be very much like looking for the proverbial needle in the bottle of hay? But assuming that he should be fortunate enough to discover her whereabouts, would it be possible for him to rescue her? It was true that Zeemit Mehal had gone in search of her, and Zeemit was faithful, and a native; but she was also old and ill, and might have died long ago.
As he thus reasoned with himself, it seemed to him that his journey, after all, was a little Quixotic, and it might be better, now that he was free, to make his way to Meerut, and there endeavour to raise a little corps to proceed to the Imperial City, and attempt a rescue by force, should Flora still be living.