Then for some little time the horsemen galloped along without exchanging a word. Each was busy with his own thoughts, which possibly flew far away to peaceful England, whose Queen little dreamed that her great Indian possessions were about to be all but wrested from her. The great Delhi road was reached at last, and along this Walter accompanied his friend for some miles. The slant shadows thrown by the evening sun were slowly fading, and darkness was creeping up. The men drew rein at last.
“I will return now,” said Walter.
“Do,” was the other’s answer. “Walter, give me your hand, old fellow. Perhaps in this world we may never meet again. If I fall, be a brother to my poor wife. If I should return, and you fall, Flo shall find a brother in me. We all carry our lives in our hands. Let us sell them as dearly as possible; and for every white man that falls let twenty black ones bite the dust.”
A sharp report rang out on the still air, and a bullet whizzed between the men.
“Great God!” cried Harper; “the storm has burst at last. Farewell.”
He grasped his friend’s hand, and in another moment was speeding away in the darkness.
Walter glanced about to see from which point the danger threatened him. Then he drew his revolver, and grasping it with the determination of an Englishman who would only sell his life at a great cost, he set his horse’s head back to Meerut.
To return to Miss Meredith. Scarcely had Walter and her brother-in-law gone than she threw herself into a chair and burst into tears.
“What for missy weeping?” said a voice behind her.
On looking up, she beheld an old and faithful ayah, named Zeemit Mehal, who had been in her mother’s service for some time.