“Not slave, Haidee. In my country we have no slaves. But you shall be my sister.”
“Sister, then,” she answered sorrowfully. “I will lead you forth from this prison that would have been your tomb. The stairs by which I descended lead to a secret passage in connection with the upper apartments of the Palace. I will guide you to a place of safety in an outer building near the magazine, where you can remain for a time. And I will inveigle one there whom you shall slay in the name of your sister Haidee. Then we will escape from the city together, and I will follow you until you are safe from all harm, and that being so, I will die. I would slay this man myself, but if the hand of a Cashmere woman spills blood, all her hopes of Paradise have gone, and the Houris would curse her.”
“But who is this man, and what wrong has he done you, Haidee?”
“He is a creature of the King. His name is Moghul Singh, the man who brought you here, who was to have accomplished your death; and the wrong he has done me is irreparable. Four years ago I was the happiest maiden in all Cashmere. In my father’s home peace reigned. He was but a peasant, but was happy and contented. A brother and two daughters, myself included, were his family. Proud and brave was my brother; and, though but a peasant’s son, he was noble and free, scorning all that was base, and loving honour better than his life. My sister had nothing to recommend her beyond gentleness of manners. She had no beauty—I had; that was my misfortune. But I knew it not then. I had given my love to a youth whose race was noble. Others had sought me, princes had knelt at my feet, but I rejected them all. Then this Moghul Singh came to our valley. He was an agent of the King of Delhi, and his mission was to take back the most beautiful maidens, that they might become the King’s mistresses. He heard of me. The fame of my face had reached him. Alas, that it should have been so! He sought me out; he tried to dazzle me with tempting offers of gold and jewels. But these things possessed no charms for me. He said that I should rank as a princess in the King’s harem. But I turned a deaf ear. Then he tried to win me for himself. I spurned him, spat at him, and called him dog. He swore by his faith he would carry me away. I told my brother and my lover, and they vowed to defend me. But Moghul Singh had powerful retainers. They came in the dead of night, armed to the teeth, to my father’s house. With the courage of lions did my brother and my lover fight. But, overpowered by numbers, I saw them both go down, weltering in their blood. At the feet of this Moghul Singh my sister then threw herself. She prayed for pity. She implored him not to take me, the light of the house, away. But the demon was pitiless. He drove a dagger into her heart because she clung to him and impeded his way, and, with a laugh of triumph, he bore me off, while my wretched father, overcome by the terrible misfortune, sank down in raving madness. Into my heart there came but one wish, one hope, one prayer. It was for vengeance. My own hand could not strike the blow, for if it did, my hopes of Paradise would for ever have gone. But I schooled myself to patience; to wait until chance raised up a deliverer. I hate Moghul Singh with a hatred that has no words. I loathe the King as a foul and loathsome thing. But I showed nothing of this outwardly. I knew that there was more to be gained by patience. I have been a witness to the plans that have been in preparation for months for this mutiny. The Nana Sahib of Cawnpore and the King of Delhi have frequently met in secret, and their agents have been sent to every town and village in India. And on the Koran they have sworn that the blood of the Feringhees should flow like water. I have waited patiently through all this plotting, for I said to myself, ‘Out of this a deliverer and avenger will come for me.’ My prayer was heard at last, and you came. Just before your arrival the King had been holding a counsel, in which the ‘rising’ was the chief topic. It was my good fortune to be present. When I looked upon you I said, in my heart, this shall be the righter of my wrongs. I knew that the moment you entered your fate was sealed, unless you were saved by a miracle. But I determined that I would save you. I heard the King give an order to Moghul Singh to consign you to the ‘stone room.’ It is the private prison of the Palace, and only those are brought here who are cast for immediate death. But I knew the secret passage leading to it. By the gift of a large amount of jewels to one of Moghul’s men, I procured a key of the door, and I am here to open it to you and set you free. In the garb of a peasant I am safe from molestation. I know the Palace and the city well, and I will save you. But in return, I must exact a promise that you will avenge me. And though you may not love poor Haidee, she will command your respect and friendship by her patience and fidelity.”
She ceased speaking, and waited in breathless anxiety for his answer. More than once during her recital had her eyes been suffused with tears, her lip had quivered with emotion; and he had caught the spirit which had moved her, until he felt her wrongs to be his wrongs, and that it was his duty to avenge them. He laid both his hands upon her shoulders and looked full into her beautiful face—his own aglow, his eyes flashing, his nerves thrilling.
“Haidee, you have made me your slave. I will avenge you.”
Boom!
The report of a heavy gun seemed to shake the building.
“Come,” she said, taking his hand, “we have no time to lose. The gun announces that the mutineers are in sight. When the hoofs of the foremost trooper’s horse ring upon the bridge across the Jumna, the death-knell of the British in Delhi will be sounded.” She drew the dagger from her girdle and handed it to him. “Take this weapon. It will do until you get a better. The blade is poisoned, and if you but scratch the skin with it, death will speedily ensue. Come, quick; a key grates in the other door.”