“To summon thee and all true believers to the green standard. Yet had I one other object in riding to Rai Bareilly. A certain Nazarene, Malcolm by name, an officer of the 3d Cavalry, was bidden by Larrence to make for Allahabad and seek help. The story runs that the Nazarenes are mustering there for a last stand ere we drive them into the sea. This Malcolm-sahib—”
“Enough!” said the moulvie, fiercely, for his self-love was wounded at learning that the rebel messenger classed him with the mob. “We have him here. He is in safe keeping when he is in the hands of Ahmed Ullah!”
“What!” exclaimed the newcomer with a mighty oath. “Are you the saintly Moulvie of Fyzabad?”
“Whom else, then, did you expect to find?”
“You, indeed, O revered one. But not here. My orders were, once I had secured the Nazarene, to send urgently to Fyzabad and bid you hurry to Lucknow with all speed.”
“Ha! Say’st thou, friend. Who gave thee this message?”
“One whom thou wilt surely listen to. Yet these things are not for every man to hear. We must speak of them apart.”
The moulvie was appeased. Nay, more, his ambition was fired.
“Come with me into the house. You are in need of food and rest. Come! We can talk while you eat.”
He drew nearer, but a woman’s voice was raised from behind a screen in one of the rooms.