The devil, that had so long been kept down by the bonds of civilisation, was rising now, and the ferocity of his nature was asserting itself. All the examples that had been set him, all the kindness that had been shown to him, and all the prayers of Christianity that had been breathed into his ear, were blown to the winds, and he was simply the Hindoo, burning with hatred for the white man, and thirsting for his blood.
“I can do all the killing that is to be done, myself,” Moghul answered. “I am no chicken-heart. Besides, the King offers fifty rupees to every one who shall slay a British officer. Hark!” he suddenly cried, as the beat of a drum and the blast of a bugle were heard; “that is the signal that our comrades have come.”
He was about to hurry away, when Jewan stopped him.
“Stay a minute,” he said, “I must leave for Cawnpore immediately, or the road may be stopped by the English. Where shall I get a good horse and conveyance?”
“Go round to the Palace stables, and take your pick. But you must away at once, or every gate will be closed, and you will be unable to pass out. Farewell, the Prophet smile on you!”
Moghul Singh hurried away, and Jewan was alone with the still insensible girl. He looked at her with admiration, as she lay there, ghastly pale and ill, but still beautiful.
He bent over her, and, pressing his hot lips on her cold forehead, he murmured—
“You are mine; and I thank the fate that placed you in my power! This is a moment to have lived for.”
He hurried away, having first taken the precaution to lock the door and take the key with him. And, as he crossed the courtyard to the stables, the boom of a heavy gun sounded, dull and ominous, on the morning air.
The Meerut mutineers had reached the Jumna. They were swarming over the bridge of boats, and clamouring beneath the windows of the Palace.