“The right stuff is in your nature, Jewan,” remarked the orderly, as he assisted his comrade to lift the insensible Flora to the couch.
“I am steel and iron,” was the answer; “that is, so far as these Feringhees are concerned.”
“That is good,” the other replied. “We must not know pity—we must be deaf to all supplications. I have a prisoner. The King gave him into my charge, and he shall die by my hand the moment the first batch of our comrades enters Delhi from Meerut.”
“Ah! is he an important one?”
“He is an English officer!”
“An English officer?”
“Yes; from Meerut.”
“Indeed. What is his name?”
“Harper; and he wears the uniform of a lieutenant.”
“Fate assists us,” Jewan answered. “I know the man. He is a friend of Walter Gordon’s, and once counselled him to discharge me. Kill him, kill him, Moghul! Or let me do it for you,” and, as the man spoke, a demoniacal expression passed over his face.