As I laid it down, I remarked the note which had fallen from its enclosure, and took it up with some curiosity. The handwriting was strange to me, and the first words made me start in the utmost alarm and terror—the remainder smote me down into the blank of utter grief.
“Sir,
“Finding the enclosed letter addressed to you among Mr Murray’s papers, and having heard him speak of you often as a much-valued friend, I think it my duty to inform you of a most unhappy occurrence which, if it has not already resulted in death, must have placed him in the utmost danger, and made his ultimate fate almost certain. A short time ago, Mr Murray was despatched on a political mission to the Rajah of ——, whom, it was thought, his firm and energetic character would especially qualify him for dealing with. The Rajah is an artful, wily, dangerous man, and Mr Murray knew before setting out that the mission was of a perilous nature. But our unfortunate friend has not been able to reach the place of his destination. Two or three days ago one of his native servants returned here, worn out with fatigue and want. He states that his master has been made prisoner by one of the predatory parties that infest that district, and that when he himself contrived to make his escape, Mr Murray, who had made a very desperate resistance, was entirely overpowered by his captors, who were stripping him of everything he possessed, including costly presents intended for the Rajah. He was severely wounded, and Doolut (the servant) believes that these fierce native bandits would not encumber their retreat with a prisoner so helpless. At the same time, there is a possibility that his life might be preserved (though, I fear, the chances are all against it) in expectation of a ransom. Every effort has been, and will be made, to discover if he still exists, and the place of his imprisonment; though I can give you very little hope of a favourable result. This most unhappy event has occasioned much regret in all circles here, Mr Murray having been, for so young a man, very greatly respected; and I can again assure you that every exertion will be made to discover his fate with certainty.
“I have the honour to be,
“Sir,
“Your most obedient servant,
“R. Churchill.”
The letter dropped from my hands; I was stunned. I had thought of death—in my thankless folly I had almost wooed it for myself—but never had it occurred to me in connection with my young, strong, life-like friends; and Hew—Hew, the dearest, truest, most noble of them all! I groaned aloud in the bitterness of my soul; I had held lightly this terrible hopeless might of death, and now I fell prostrate under its power.
Then I started in a frenzy of hope, to write to the stranger who had sent to me this sad intelligence. I do not know what I said to him; but I remember how I begged and prayed, with involuntary unconscious tears, urging my entreaty aloud in the intensity of my emotion, that nothing should be left undone; that every means that could be used, should be put into immediate operation—that my unknown correspondent would employ agents for me to prosecute the search for Hew. When I had finished, I thought it cold and indifferent—it would not do—I could not be content to depute to mercenary hands such an undertaking as this. I resolved to go myself to India, to seek for my dearest friend.
But in the mean time there was much to be done. I could not leave home without making many arrangements, and losing precious time. So I sent off my letter, and began immediately to prepare for my journey.
CHAPTER X.
No hope—no hope! let calm lips say, No hope,
To whom hope never was; but as for me,
This possible is life—
And if you say it is impossible,
Yet up, up to your highest cliffs of ice
I go to light my watchfire—so perchance,
As he may see it from afar. No hope!
There never is but hope where there is love.—Old Play.
Land! our voyage is just ending, and softly before us in the dawn of the morning rise the shores of India; the mighty, impotent, fabulous, golden East.