One day a few showers had fallen, and the air was soft and balmy; the dry winds of May had already abated, and the summer was beginning to burst forth. Herbert was lying upon the spot which we have once mentioned in Hulleekul Droog; his little garden was freshened by the late rain, and the odour of the flowers came to him gratefully, as he looked over the wide prospect, now so familiar, yet, for all that, presenting in colour, in effect, perpetually new features.
The Naik of his guard came to him. ‘Arise!’ he said, ‘I have news for thee.’
‘Speak!’ said Herbert—‘what news? is Jaffar coming again? is he arrived?’
‘Not so,’ said the man, ‘thou art to travel.’
Herbert’s heart sank within him.
‘To travel!’ he said anxiously; ‘has the Sultaun sent for me?’
‘No,’ said the man, ‘he has not—he is dead. The English have taken the city, and the Sultaun is no more.’
‘Merciful Providence!’ cried Herbert aloud in his own tongue; ‘is this true, or is it a dream? killed, didst thou say?’
‘Ay, Sahib,’ said the man, dashing a tear from his eye; ‘he was a great man, and has died like a soldier! Wilt thou come? thy countrymen will look for thee now, and perhaps the act of taking thee to them will give me favour in their eyes. As to this post, it will be abandoned—no one will need it; and if we remain here, no one will remember us. What dost thou think?’
But he spoke to one who heeded not his words—they hardly fell upon his ear. Herbert had knelt down, and on the spot where his first vision of escape had come to him, where he now heard he was free, he poured forth thoughts that were too big for words—incoherently, perhaps—what matter? they rose out of a grateful, glowing heart, and ascended to the throne of Him who looked into it and saw the feelings there, while the words that expressed them passed away upon the sighing wind unheeded.