“At what time?”
“Late. I hold the keys of certain doors and gates, and I shall have the passwords, so that we shall not have much difficulty in getting out. Once clear of the Palace, a buggy shall be in waiting, and all will be well.”
“I shall be ready for you,” she answered, as she withdrew her hand.
She felt thankful when she was alone again, for the part she had played had taxed all her faculties to keep up. But the hours passed wearily enough now. She alternated between hope and fear. Every sound startled her. She watched the hands of the clock with feverish eyes. The hours seemed to go by leaden-footed. Ten, eleven, twelve struck, still Moghul had not come. She almost despaired. But the hour of one had barely chimed when the key was turned in the lock of the door. The door opened, and Moghul Singh appeared. In his hand he carried a coil of rope and a large dark-coloured shawl.
“I am true to my promise, you see,” he said, as he handed her the shawl. “You must conceal yourself in this as much as possible.”
She took the shawl and enveloped herself in it, while Moghul went out on to the terrace, and having made one end of the rope fast to the railings of the verandah, he lowered the other over.
“The sentries will have to answer for that,” he remarked, with a grin, as he returned to the room. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Come then.”
With palpitating heart and trembling limbs she followed him. He led the way down silent corridors and dark passages, past sleeping Sepoys and drunken servants, he moving quickly and noiselessly, she following like a shadow, but feeling sick and ill, and with a terrible sense of fear pressing upon her.