“A horse—a horse,” cried Moghul. “A hundred rupees for a horse. There is a Feringhee woman escaping from the city in yonder buggy.”
A horse was speedily produced. Moghul sprang on to its back, and, followed by a yelling pack of demons, set off in pursuit of the escaped prisoner. But a good start had been given to the fugitives. The sounds of the rattling wheels and the horse’s hoofs did not reach the ears of the pursuers, who tore madly along, while Zeemit, who was well acquainted with the city and its suburbs, guided the animal down a by-road that led through a jungle. After travelling for some miles, she pulled up.
“We must alight here,” she said, “and abandon the horse and buggy, or we shall be traced.”
Flora sprang from the ground, and the two women hurried along on foot. Zeemit led the way. She knew every inch of the ground. She kept her companion up by holding out hopes of ultimate safety.
As daylight was struggling in, a muddy creek was reached. It was a lonely spot—overgrown with tall reeds and rank grass, and the haunt of numberless reptiles. Half-hidden amongst the rushes was a large, broken, and decaying budgerow, lying high and dry on a mud-bank.
“This place offers us safety and shelter for a time,” Zeemit observed. “I discovered it after leaving the Palace grounds.”
She assisted Flora to get into the old boat. She collected a quantity of rushes and dried grass to form a bed. These she spread upon the floor of the budgerow, and then the two women, thoroughly exhausted, threw themselves down, and fell into a sound sleep. At the same moment Moghul Singh was returning to the Palace after his fruitless search, vowing vengeance against Flora, and determining to send out men to recapture her, on the pain of death if they failed.