“But what do you imagine this danger to be?” I asked him.
“Why, Siab, I think Sinzaun is about to give her to the Nabob.”
I sat down again, sick at heart, remembering that the Soubah’s parasite, Moonloll, had gained his position by handing over to the Prince his own sister, a young lady who was reported to be the most delicate figure in the world. Sinzaun might well be put to it to surpass such a gift as this, but he has the means ready to his hand in our beloved and unhappy sufferer.
“Mirza Shaw,” I said, suddenly, “you and I will forestall him yet.”
“So be it, Siab. I have finished the ropes and the basket, and I will fetch you as soon as it’s dusk.”
“No,” I said; “the lady must be warned as we designed, or we may miss her in the darkness. I’ll go to our house in a dooley.”
For you must know, madam, that my disguise for going about my business with Mirza Shaw is no other than the outer garment of a Moor-woman, veil and cloak in one, which covers me from head to foot, concealing even my eyes with a netting. This passes well enough in the dusk, but in daylight I fear that so strapping a wench might excite more attention than would be desirable, so that the privacy of a dooley was needed for my conveyance. Mirza Shaw required no second bidding. He departed to find a dooley, while I sought to curb my impatience by finishing my letter to you. Sure there never was a dooley so hard to find. The rascal must have been gone a whole day. No, there he is returning. Madam, I trust you are remembering in your prayers this enterprise of ours, and your obedient, humble servant,
C. Fraser.
CHAPTER XVIII.
PROVING THAT THE DAYS OF MIRACLES ARE PAST.
From Miss Sylvia Freyne to Miss Amelia Turnor.