“I want to see her able to get at these unfortunate secluded women and find out what their real views and wishes are. The Moti-ul-Nissa has about the wisest head in Nalapur, but her wisdom might as well be in the moon for all I hear of it until after the event. Her brother is altogether under the influence of the Sheikh-ul-Jabal, and the old man can’t forgive me because I pointed out to him that the same person could not be head of his sect and Amir of Nalapur. He has had to adopt the younger brother as his spiritual successor instead of the elder, and he would like to pay me out; but the Moti-ul-Nissa does all she can for us. That rascal Hasrat Ali leads her a life. Her children have died one after the other, and the brute would divorce her if he dared. The poor woman always sends to inquire after Missy when I am at Nalapur, and I should like to send her to see her, but I daren’t. You never know whose agents may be among the crowds of women in those big zenanas, and I can’t run any risks with Missy. But think what it will be when she grows up, if she cares enough for the poor creatures to do what she can to help them!”
“I shall think more of her if she does what she can to help you, sir,” said Sir Dugald obstinately. “But I suppose this grudge of the Sheikh-ul-Jabal’s means that there is no hope of a treaty with Nalapur for the present?”
“None, so far as I can see, which is a bore, just when our authorities have been wrought up to the proper pitch. Pater will back me at the right moment, and we can offer the Amir a handsome subsidy if he will keep the passes open and let caravans pass freely, and allow us to station a resident at his capital. Of course that means practically that we guarantee his frontiers, but have power to move troops through his territory in case of a land invasion; and the increased stability it would give to his throne would make it well worth his while. The Sheikh and I are trying to tire each other out; but I mean to have that treaty if I live long enough, and the Moti-ul-Nissa will throw her influence on my side. When one has served one’s apprenticeship one begins to understand the ins and outs of these Asian mysteries.”
“Talking of mysteries,” said Sir Dugald, “have you ever heard anything more as to Ferrers’ fate after—the night you saw him?”
General Keeling’s face changed. “Strangely enough, I have,” he said; “but whether the story is true we shall probably never know for certain. I had it from a Gamari Jew who came to me in secret, and was divided between fear of his life if it ever became known what he had done, and anxiety to wring the uttermost pie out of me for his information. I took down the account from his own lips, and have it here.” He unlocked a drawer and took out a paper, glanced across at the corner to make sure that Missy was engrossed in her own affairs, and leaning towards Sir Dugald, began to read in a low voice:—
“‘I was in the city of Gamara a year ago, when there was much talk concerning Firoz Khan, the Farangi chief of his Highness’s bodyguard, who had disappeared. Some said he had been secretly slain, others that he had been sent on a private errand by his Highness. One day there was proclamation made throughout the city that two men were to be put to death in the palace square,—one a Christian, the other one who had embraced Islam and relapsed into his idolatry. Many desired to see the sight, and among those that found standing-room in the square was I. Now when the prisoners were led forth there was much astonishment among the people, for one of them was Firoz Khan; and those that looked upon him said that he bore the marks of torture. And the other was an old man and bent, blind also, and walking with difficulty, who they said had dwelt in the dungeons for many years. It was noticed that no offer of life was made to these prisoners, nor were any questions put to them; moreover, his Highness’s face was black towards every one on whom his eye lighted. But the prisoners spoke to one another in English,—which tongue I understand, having studied it in India,—and the one said, “I am a Christian, and a Christian I die,” and the other, kissing him upon the forehead, said, “George, we shall meet in Paradise, in the presence of God,” and turning to the people he cried, in a voice of extraordinary strength: “Tell the English that this man, who for his life’s sake gave up Christ, now for Christ’s sake gives up his life.” And when his voice was heard there fell a terror on the people, for they said it was a young Farangi that had long ago disappeared, whom they counted to be inspired of God, and there arose murmurings, so that his Highness commanded the executioners to do their duty at once; and the heads of the two men were struck off with a great sword, and their bodies foully dealt with, as is the wont in Gamara. I know no more concerning them.’”
General Keeling ceased reading, and his eyes and Sir Dugald’s met. For a moment neither spoke.
“I suppose there can’t be much doubt that it’s true?” said Sir Dugald at last.
“None, I should say; but we can’t expect positive proof.”
“It’s a curious thing,” said Sir Dugald, with some hesitation, “but when I told my wife, on the voyage to the Cape, what you had told me about Ferrers’ turning up again, she said at once that she believed poor Ross was alive still. She meant to tell you herself—it didn’t seem quite the sort of thing to write about—but when she was watching beside Mrs Keeling the day she died, she saw her smile when they thought she was insensible, and heard her say quite strongly, ‘They are all there, my father and mother, and my little sister who died—all waiting for me, but not Colin. Elma, where is Colin?’ My wife said something—you know the sort of thing women would say in answer to a thing of the kind—but when she thought it over, it occurred to her that it must mean Ross was not dead. That again is no proof, of course, but it’s curious.”