“It was she who told me whither you had gone, sahib.”
“Ah, she knew, then? Did she say aught—send any message?”
“Only that you would be certain to need my help, sahib.”
That puzzled Frank. Winifred, of course, had said nothing of the kind, but Chumru assumed that she understood him, so his misrepresentation was quite honest.
A level path now enabled them to canter, and they reached the first belt of trees ten minutes after the moulvie’s men set out for Rai Bareilly. Luck, which was befriending Chumru that day, must have made possible that burst of speed at the right moment. They were discussing their plans in the gloom of a grove of giant pipals when the clatter of horses hard ridden came from the road they had just quitted.
There could be no doubting the errand that brought a cavalcade thus furiously from the direction of Lucknow. It was so near a thing that for a little while they could not be certain they had escaped unseen. But the riders whirled along towards Rai Bareilly, and in another quarter of an hour the night would be their best guardian.
“That settles it,” said Malcolm, in whose veins the blood was now coursing with its normal vitality, though, for the same reason, his right forearm ached abominably. “It would be folly to attempt the road again. Let us make for the river. We must find a boat there, and get men to take us to Allahabad, either by hire or force.”
“How far is it to the river, sahib?”
“About twenty-five miles.”
“Praise be to Allah! That is better than seventy, for my feet are weary of that accursed Brahmin’s boots.”