Jewan sprang up beside her, and, covering her up with a dark horse-cloth, he lashed his horse into a gallop, and was soon speeding out of Meerut. As the buggy reached the great Mall, it was passed by a horse that was tearing along at a great pace. It carried a rider, an Englishman. His head was bare, his hair was streaming in the wind, his teeth were set, and in his hand he firmly held a revolver. He bent low, until his face almost touched the neck of his horse, for now and again shots were sent after him; but he seemed to bear a charmed life, and never slackened pace for an instant, and soon he and the buggy were far apart.
The flying horseman was Walter Gordon. Breathless and begrimed, he rushed into the compound of the Meredith bungalow, just in time to see flames issuing from the windows. It had been fired by the incendiaries. He would have entered the burning building, but a hand firmly grasped his arm, and a voice whispered in his ear—
“Be silent as you value your life.”
It was Zeemit Mehal.
“Where is Miss Meredith?” he cried, in spite of the old woman’s warning.
“She lives,” was the answer. “On your prudence depends her safety and your own. Be guided by me, and wait. Tether your horse to yonder tree, and follow me.”
He did as she desired, for there was something in the woman’s tone that gave him hope and confidence. Then at her bidding he crouched down beneath a clump of bushes, and waited.