“Yes, yes, go on,” said Major Keeling to the narrator.
“And when the Farangi was brought out, proclamation was made by a herald that his Highness, in his clemency, would offer the Kafir his life on certain conditions, and that questions should be put to him in Persian, and translated into Turki, so that the people might hear. Then came forward Mirza Fazl-ul-Hacq, the accursed, and by command of his Highness, asked the Farangi, ‘Wilt thou adopt the creed of Islam and enter my army, like thy countryman yonder?’ But the Farangi, drawing himself up in spite of his chains, made answer, ‘I am an Englishman and a Christian, and I will neither enter thine army nor become a Mohammedan. I choose rather to die.’ Then his Highness, in great wrath, cried, ‘And die thou shalt!’ and the Farangi’s head was struck off by an executioner with a great sword.”
“And did he never look at Ferrers Sahib, or speak to him?” asked Major Keeling.
“Nay, sahib; he kept his eyes turned away from him.”
“That was not like Ross,” said Major Keeling to Sir Dugald.
“But suppose Ferrers had visited poor Ross in prison, sir—tried to get him to abjure Christianity?” suggested Sir Dugald. “He could not have much to say to him after that.”
“I don’t know. I should have expected Ross to think of him to the end. And that was all?” asked Major Keeling of the messenger.
“That was all, sahib; except that the Farangi’s body was exposed at the place of execution, with the insults customary when a Kafir has been executed, and that among the crowd there were some who said, in the hearing of my lord’s servant, that in slaying the young Sahib the Khan had certainly invited judgments, for there was a spirit in him.”
“And that is all!” said Major Keeling heavily. “You have done well, O Kutb-ud-Din, in bringing us this news. Here!” he scribbled an order hastily, “take this to the pay-clerk without, and receive the rupees he will give you. You may go. Now, Haigh,” he turned to Sir Dugald as the old man bowed himself out with profuse thanks, “you must go home and get your wife to break this to Miss Ross—and God help them both!”
Once more there had come to Penelope, who thought she had given up all hope, a blow which showed her that she had been unconsciously cherishing a belief in Colin’s safety. He might escape from prison, might be ransomed, his captors might even relent and release him—there was always the chance of one of these; but now hope was definitely taken away. And one terrible thought was in Penelope’s mind day and night—it was her fault that he had gone to Gamara. At present she could not even remember for her comfort the happier days which had preceded his departure; she could only look back upon the past and judge herself more harshly than Colin had ever judged her. Day after day and night after night she tormented herself with that most unprofitable of mental exercises—unprofitable, because the same circumstances are never likely to recur in the experience of the same person—of going over the events of the last two or three years, and noting where she might have acted differently, with how much happier results! If she had only been altogether different! If she had never allowed herself to lose faith in Ferrers, if she had refused to believe in the revelations which met her at Bab-us-Sahel, if she had been willing to marry him before coming to Alibad, instead of putting him on probation! If she had only loved him better—so that he would not have had the heart to leave her to go to Gamara, or, having gone there, would have found her love such a shield to him that he could not have denied his faith! Her reason told her that it was impossible, that Ferrers and she had grown so far apart that the woman could not have given him the enthusiastic devotion which had been showered upon him by the romantic little girl; but she blamed herself for the change. Colin had never altered—why should she? It must have been something wrong in herself that had made her first fail Ferrers when he needed her, and at last draw upon herself Colin’s stern rebuke by declaring that she could not keep her promise. If it had not been for her Ferrers would not have gone to Gamara, and, but for him, Colin would not have gone either. She was morally guilty of Colin’s death and Ferrers’ abjuration of Christianity. And thus the awful round went on, every variation in argument or recollection bringing her to the same terrible conclusion, until Penelope almost persuaded herself that she was as guilty in the sight of others as in her own. Every one must know that she had those two lost lives on her conscience. They were sorry for her, but how could they help blaming her? and she withdrew herself from their pitying eyes. Lady Haigh humoured her at first, when she insisted on taking her rides at a time when no one else was about; but when Penelope refused to go out at all, and sat all day in a sheltered corner of the house-top, looking northward to the mountains, she became seriously alarmed.