“It is the will of the Presence,” said Murtiza Khan, with a resignation as sulky in its way as Wazira Begum’s. The girl had led the way up to the roofs of the buildings surrounding the zenana courtyard, which formed a terrace from which the defence of the place could be carried on. She sprang up on the parapet, and looked over the wall.
“Here is the place,” she said. “My brother Ashraf Ali once dropped a jewel from his turban over the wall, and we let him down to recover it. Bring ropes, O women.”
The servants ran wildly in all directions, and produced a heterogeneous collection of cords, which were knotted together and pieced out with strips torn from sheets. The trooper tested them carefully, and expressed himself as satisfied, only entreating that Lady Haigh would herself hold the cord and give the orders. Then he let himself down over the parapet, hung for a moment to the edge by his fingers, and loosed his hold. Lady Haigh restrained the eagerness of the women who held the rope, insisting that they should pay it out slowly and steadily; and after what seemed an age, the trooper’s voice was heard, telling them to slacken it a little, that he might unfasten it. Then the rope came up again free, and not daring to wait on the wall, Lady Haigh and Wazira Begum left the servants to untie and hide the separate parts, and fled back into the house. Wazira Begum was madly anxious about her brother, and Lady Haigh now remembered that Penelope had not accompanied them to the wall. They both caught sight of her at the same moment, and Wazira Begum sprang forward with a cry of rage, for Penelope was kneeling by the charpoy on which Maadat Ali lay, and binding up his head. The fierce jealousy which made the native girl rush to drive her away did not even occur to her, and she looked up at her with a smile.
“He is only stunned, and he is beginning to come round. Take my place, so that he may see you when he opens his eyes, but don’t startle him. I’m sure he ought to be kept very quiet.”
Her anger disarmed by Penelope’s unsuspiciousness, Wazira Begum obeyed meekly, and kneeling down by the charpoy, murmured endearing epithets as she pressed her lips passionately to her brother’s hands. But Lady Haigh had moved to the curtain, beyond which Zulika had just been summoned by an imperious voice which demanded that some one from the zenana should come forth and speak. The contest in the hall had ended in the triumph of the invaders. The bodies of the dead and dying which cumbered the floor showed that the men of the Mountains had fought hard for their stronghold; but they were much outnumbered, and utterly taken by surprise. Their assailants were evidently kept well in hand by their leader, the man who had been carried in the litter, for instead of dispersing through the fortress in search of loot, they were methodically removing the dead and caring for their own wounded. The wounded among the defenders were promptly despatched. It was the leader who now stood before the curtain, and before whom Zulika grovelled abjectly, her forehead on the ground.
“Who is within?” asked the leader.
“My lord’s servants the daughter and the young son of my master, the Sheikh-ul-Jabal, and the women of the household.”
“No one else? What of the two Farangi ladies who took shelter here last night, and their servant?”
“Truly the wisdom of my lord is as that of Solomon the son of David! The Farangi ladies are indeed within, the guests of my master’s house.”
“And their servant—is he also within?”