“The son of my mother, lady, and given into my arms by her when she died.”
Even the Khanum seemed moved. “Thou art indeed in a sore strait!” she said. “Rise, lady, and return to thy lord. For the present my skirt is over thee and him. It may be that good fortune will attend my son. If so, I will entreat him for thee. If not, I will send for thee again, and we will speak of this.”
It was a sore strait indeed, and Eveleen could hardly see for tears the attar and pan that were presented to her as she retired, nor utter the words of farewell. At any other time she would have been amused by the bearer’s incredulous delight on seeing her return alive and unharmed, and Ketty’s obvious disgust at the unimportant part she had been allowed to take in the proceedings, though she returned from the zenana the richer by a fine new cloth—the gift of the Khanum. She could not even be amused at herself for totally forgetting alike the Khanum’s present of clothes and the poisoned soap that accompanied it, nor at the ladies for ignoring them so completely. She could only tell herself that she had degraded the English name in vain by her humiliation, and that the General’s victory, which she was patriotically sure would come, would certainly be set down as the result of her malignity.
That she was right in this, at any rate, was proved only too soon, when she was summoned again to the Khanum after a night of turmoil in the town, when the shrill wailings of the women penetrated into the fort and were answered by like cries from the zenana. Sir Harry had defeated Jamal-ud-din’s force and held the boy prisoner, and Kamal-ud-din had been too late to rescue his brother. The Arabits in the courtyard cursed and spat at her as they turned their heads aside, and in the zenana Jamal-ud-din’s mother, noisy and dishevelled amid a group of sympathisers—yet not without a certain satisfaction in finding herself for once the prominent person—met her with bitter words and angry threats. Was this her gratitude? the ladies demanded hysterically. Was she so blind as to imagine that now she was in Kamal-ud-din’s power she could go on working her spells against him, and yet expect to escape unpunished? With monotonous reiteration the mourners repeated the question in different words, the only calm person present being the Khanum, who had consulted propriety by appearing ceremonially dishevelled, but sat apart from the noisy group, wearing the peculiar air of detachment which distinguished her. But she made no attempt to protect Eveleen.
“Go, go!” shrieked Jamal-ud-din’s mother at last, having exhausted her store of insults—and it was not a small one—“but think not to escape. Had I my will, thy head and that of the Farangi without would already be speeding to the camp of the Brother of Satan, whom ye call Bahadar Jang, to confront him at his table. But ye are protected”—with terrific scorn—“by the son of my sister. Yet take warning. If one hair falls from the head of my son, no protection of his Highness will serve thee—or thy lord—from the vengeance of the women, and these hands”—most realistic claws extended—“will be the first to tear.”
Eveleen knew well enough what she meant. There were women everywhere around—not merely the Princesses, in their transparent muslins, and silks that a single violent movement would tear, but hard-faced old women, of the race of those whose mission it was to finish up the wounded in frontier warfare. She had often heard shudderingly of their horrible methods of torture and mutilation—picking out the wounded man’s eyes with the long needles used for applying kohl to the eyelids was one of the mildest,—and the thought of the little dagger occurred to her again. Not for herself, there would not be time for both, but for Richard. She looked involuntarily towards the impassive Khanum, who spoke coldly.
“Go, and we will send for thee again. But bethink thee well ere thou bring further evil upon this house.”
Returning wretchedly to the dungeon, Eveleen found, with a certain warming of the heart, Carthew waiting to see her—or rather, shuffling uneasily about the room, a look of rooted misery on his face. It must have cost him so much effort to show himself on the side of such desperately unpopular people, that she hated herself for thinking that he had come because he feared she would make his allegiance even more conspicuous by sending for him. The natural contrariety of Eveleen’s disposition caused her spirits to rise immediately on beholding his depression, and she greeted him with a very fair imitation of cheerfulness.
“I’m glad to find you in such good spirits, ma’am,” he said—in a tone very far from glad.
“And why wouldn’t I be, when the General is well on his way to come and rescue us?”