It was Jewan; he was on his way to Delhi, to seek reinforcements in the name of Nana Sahib. Master and servant had met. Master and servant were face to face, and one of them must die. Jewan recognised his old master’s voice in an instant, and, with the instinct of self-preservation, which is ever uppermost in the human mind, he sprang behind the cocoa-nut trees, and covered the door of the cook-house with his revolver.
In his uncontrollable excitement, consequent on this unexpected and strange meeting, Gordon exposed himself to the aim of his foe. Jewan fired, but his aim was high, and his bullet went crashing through the roof of the little building. Bukht was looking out to see if his shot had taken effect, when Gordon seized the opportunity, and fired; but the bullet only struck the tree.
It was certain that one of the men must fall, for neither could leave his shelter without exposing himself to the fire of the other.
“Walter Gordon, you shall not escape me!” Jewan cried tauntingly. “I have friends, who will be coming along the road soon, and they shall burn you out.”
“Villain and traitor!” Gordon answered; “you have professed Christianity, and worshipped in the Christian faith; and I tell you that that God, whose name you have often invoked, will guide my bullet, and recognise the justice of my cause.”
A part of Jewan’s shoulder was exposed, and Gordon fired again—but again missed—the bullet passing a little too high, and grazing the bark of the tree. He was ordinarily a good shot, but his nerves were unsteady now with excitement, and he could not take proper aim.
“Ah, ah, ah!” laughed Jewan as he returned the fire. “Your bullets need guiding, I think.”
Gordon was inclined to go out and openly attack his enemy, but Haidee would not permit it.
“That would be madness,” she said in alarm, “and a needless sacrifice of your life.”
“What, then, is to be done?” he asked. “If the fellow should be reinforced, we shall be doomed. Is it not better to make a bold stroke for our lives?”