“Much obliged,” muttered Dick; but under his breath he grumbled, “I wish that voice of yours wasn’t quite so loud.”
Georgia was being helped out of the litter at the moment, and as she reached the ground she cast a quick, apprehensive glance about her. Her hand was on Dick’s arm; Fitz was coming through the archway, and Kustendjian was visible on the verandah of the Durbar-hall. Ismail Bakhsh and his subordinates stood by the gate, looking at her with disapproving eyes, silent and grim, and her mind filled up in a moment the gaps in Mr Hicks’ speech. A sob broke from her as she stood gazing from one to the other; then her hand dropped from Dick’s arm, and, gathering her burka around her, she passed on into the inner court. Dick followed, with a vague notion of saying something to comfort her; but at the foot of the steps she turned and faced him.
“You let Mr Stratford go to the Palace in exchange for me—you let him?” she asked sharply, and waited for his answer with breathless anxiety.
“I tried to prevent him—he would go,” stammered Dick.
“You let him sacrifice himself to save me? If anything happens to him I will never, never speak to you again as long as I live!” and she turned her back on him and fled up the steps. He stood looking after her, stupefied.
“She cares for him, and I never guessed it,” he muttered to himself. “I might have saved him for her, and I have let him go and get himself killed by those fiends yonder!”
CHAPTER XV.
ONE CROWDED HOUR.
Throughout that long day, Dick worked with feverish activity at anything that offered itself as an outlet for his energies, without cherishing the least hope that his friend’s sanguine anticipations of a possible change for the better in the attitude of the King and Fath-ud-Din would be realised. It was his opinion that the worst had come to the worst, and that as soon as Stratford had met his death at the Palace, a general attack upon the Mission premises would take place, with the view of making it appear that all the members of the expedition had been murdered in a popular tumult. With this cheering prospect in view, he prepared the building for defence, instructed the servants afresh as to their respective duties in case of an assault, and placed the stands of arms where their contents could most readily be seized on an emergency. Fearing that an attempt might be made to starve the Mission into a surrender, he bought up all the provisions which the country-people brought in, and even induced them by liberal payments to sell him a supply of corn which they had intended to dispose of in the city market.
Having thus made preparations for resisting a siege as well as a sudden assault, he was forced by his very need of occupation to take somewhat wider views, and to consider the improbable possibility of evacuating the place safely. Accordingly he summoned Ismail Bakhsh, and, setting before him the facts of the case, asked whether he would undertake the dangerous task of conveying a message to Fort Rahmat-Ullah. He did not attempt to minimise the risks to be incurred; but the old soldier was faithful to his salt, and consented to attempt the journey in disguise. His trained eye had enabled him to observe the features of the route traversed on the journey to more purpose than his younger companions had done, and he was persuaded that if he were once safely outside the walls he could make his way to the frontier without much difficulty—provided, of course, that his absence was not discovered, and a hue and cry set on foot. A certain addition to his pension in case of his success, and compensation to his family if he was killed, were agreed upon, and Ismail Bakhsh retired, leaving Dick to face the inaction which he had been combating all day.
He could not think of anything else to do, beyond going the round of the walls at absurdly short intervals and seeing that the servants were keeping a good look-out; and the more personal troubles, which he had been trying to keep at bay, crowded upon him and would not be put aside. The day had cost him both his friend and the woman whom he loved—and who loved that friend. The miserable irony of the situation seemed to mock him afresh whenever he tried to face it. Georgia loved Stratford, and Stratford had gone to his death to save her—yet not because he loved her, but because he saw in the action a chance of doing a good stroke of business—while he, who would willingly have died for Georgia’s sake, remained alive, to meet the grief and anger which she would naturally feel at his having allowed his friend to sacrifice himself for her.