There was no time to answer, for the Moors having finished their devotions, there came a Jemmautdar to summon Mr Holwell to another audience of the Nabob, and as soon as he was gone some one standing in the front of the varanda called out that Omy Chund was coming. Presently the wicked old man, his usual sleek and spotless aspect somewhat marred by his week in prison, but wearing the Nabob’s seerpaw, a rich dress of gold gingham, over his Gentoo garments, mounted the steps of the varanda, attended by two or three Moors.
“Gentlemen,” he said in his own tongue, his cunning little eyes wandering over the mass of prisoners, “I am come on an errand of compassion. They tell me that the daughter of my good friend and patron, Fahrein Saeb, is among you, without any female attendance, and I have obtained leave from his Highness the Soubah to carry her to my own house and entrust her to the care of my family. I need not assure you that this offer springs solely from my respect and affection for Fahrein Saeb’s memory, and that the lady will enjoy perfect safety and honourable treatment at my house until it be possible to restore her to her friends.”
No one made any answer to this humane and affecting declaration, and Omy Chund walked along the varanda looking at the prisoners, and tarrying so long before Mrs Carey that her spouse, persuaded there was designs abroad against his wife, bade him go on quickly or he would knock him down the steps. Still not finding the unhappy creature he sought, Omy Chund told the chief Moor that was with him to desire the prisoners to sit down, which we did, I in the midst of the knot of gentlemen who shielded me. I could not be thankful enough that I had never met Omy Chund face to face before this day, for although his eyes rested upon me, he failed to recognise me in my disguise, and his aspect grew more and more sour.
“Who’s that on the bedstead in the corner?” he says at last suspiciously.
“Why, Omy Chund,” says my papa, raising himself up with Captain Colquhoun’s help, and speaking in an agreeable rallying voice, “I fear you’ve forgot your friend. Don’t you recognise Fahrein Saeb?”
“Pardon, gracious sir,” says the Gentoo, quite confused. “I had understood you was dead. You won’t take it amiss if I say that for your sake I had even hoped it, since I could not look to save you in the same manner as your daughter. Pray, sir, where’s the young lady?”
“Why, in a place of safety by this time, I hope,” says Mr Freyne. “You should bid your friends the Moors keep better watch, Omy Chund.”
The rest of the gentlemen laughed to see Omy Chund so confounded, and he, muttering angrily to himself, went down the steps again after one more inquisitive search among us. But when he was gone, the remembrance of the menacing language he had used provoked many enquiries and surmisings, which were only allayed by the return of Mr Holwell from his third interview with our conqueror, who, said the good gentleman, had pledged to him his word as a soldier that no harm should come to any of us. I was now seated again at the side of my papa, who appeared strangely drowsy, saying two or three times over that he was fatigued and would rest, and finally falling into a doze, undisturbed by the conversation going on around him. I remember that the good Padra recalled to our memories that it was the Sabbath evening, and that Mr Fisherton entered into an ingenious calculation to prove that, allowing for the difference of time, the afternoon church service was just about beginning at Whitcliffe in the county of Sussex, where his honoured father is the Rector. One of the other gentlemen objected to some error that he imagined in Mr Fisherton’s reckoning, and they were disputing the matter very pleasantly, when some one called attention to the alarming progress of the flames in which the greater part of the factory was now wrapped, and which, though they had been kindled upon the first entrance of the Moors, seemed to have gained fresh strength with sunset. The buildings both to right and left of us were now burning, and the horrid notion was suggested that our captors designed to suffocate us in the flames, which was supported by the sudden appearance of several Jemmautdars and fellows with lighted torches, who went about examining all the rooms under the varanda where we were. The young gentlemen immediately declared for rushing upon the guard and seizing their scymitars, so fighting to the last, rather than submit to such a fate, but Mr Holwell, who went to question the Moormen, returned quickly to assure us that they had no such inhuman intentions, but were only seeking a place to confine us in for the night.
It appeared that their search was successful, for the Jemmautdars returning and joining our guard, which advanced towards us from the parade, ordered us to go into the barracks, which opened upon the varanda where we stood. This was better than we had expected, for these apartments had been specially built with a view to coolness, and the gentlemen began talking and laughing over their good fortune and the oddity of the situation, while I stooped over my papa to awaken him gently, lest he should be startled by finding himself moved, but I could not succeed in rousing him.
“Pray, sir,” I cried, catching Captain Colquhoun’s arm in a great anxiety, “come here a moment. I can’t wake my papa.”