As Malcolm himself brought the earliest news of the investment, he and Chumru were put ashore with a small escort, in order that they might join Major Renaud’s column, and hurry to Havelock with his thrilling tidings. Spurgin promised to visit the village on the east bank, release Hossein Beg, and make him a hostage for the ryot’s welfare. As for Harriet and Grace Keene, they would be sent south as soon as a carriage could be procured.
The two girls bade Frank farewell with a gratitude which was embarrassing, but Grace, more mercurial than Harriet, ventured to say:
“I suppose you are longing to see Winifred again, Mr. Malcolm?”
“Yes,” he replied, well knowing the thought that lay behind the words. “You are her friend, so there is no reason why I should not tell you that she is my promised wife.”
“Then you are both to be congratulated,” put in the elder sister, “for she is quite the most charming girl we know, and our opinion of you is not likely to be a poor one after to-day’s experiences.”
“What? After an hour’s acquaintance?”
“An hour! There are some hours that are half a lifetime. Good-by, may Heaven guard and watch over you!”
Renaud despatched Lawrence’s messenger to the south in a dâk-gharry, or post-carriage. Chumru would have taken the servant’s usual perch beside the driver, but Malcolm would not hear of it. His faithful attendant was almost as worn with fatigue as he himself; master and man shared the comfort of the roomy vehicle; and slept for many hours while it rumbled along the road.
At dawn on the 4th of July they entered Allahabad. But the driver had his orders and did not stop in the city. They passed through a sullen bazaar, and were gazed at by a mob that wore the aspect of a cageful of tigers in which order has just been induced by the liberal use of red-hot irons. The travelers were nodding asleep again when the sharp summons of a British sentry gladdened Malcolm’s ears.
“Who goes there?”