“My dear father was killed by Mr. Tucker’s side,” said she. “He was the deputy commissioner of Fattehpore. Keene is our name—I am Harriet, this is my sister Grace. We only came out from England last cold weather—”
A sudden recollection brought a cry of surprise from Frank.
“Why,” he said, “you were fellow-passengers on the Assaye with Miss Winifred Mayne?”
“Yes, do you know her? What has become of her? We were told that everyone at Meerut was killed.”
“Thank Heaven, she was alive and well when I last saw her three days ago.”
“And her uncle? Is he living? She was very much attached to him. How did she escape from Meerut?” broke in Grace, eagerly.
“I wish they had never left Meerut. The Mutiny at that station collapsed in a couple of hours. Unfortunately they are now both penned up in the Residency at Lucknow, which is surrounded by goodness only knows how many thousands of rebels. But I must give you Winifred’s recent history at another time. I want you to tell me something about this neighborhood. What is the nearest town on the river, and which bank is it on?”
“Unfortunately, our acquaintance with this part of India is very slight,” said Miss Harriet Keene, sadly. “We remained at Calcutta four months with our mother, who died there, without having seen our dear father after a separation of five years. We came up country in March, and were going to Naini Tal[19] when the Mutiny broke out. We only saw the Ganges three or four times before our ayah brought us across on that terrible night when father was murdered.”
Malcolm had heard many such tensely dramatic stories from fugitives who had reached Lucknow during July. Phrases of pity or consolation were powerless in face of these tragedies. But he could not forbear asking one question:
“How did you come to fall into the hands of Hossein Beg?”