The evening of the first day's march Gerrard spent with Partab Singh in his private audience-tent, laying plans which were to provide against the occurrence of all possible contingencies during his absence. At the close of the interview he took leave of the Rajah, whom he would only see from a distance as he rode away on the morrow, and received his urgent injunctions to let nothing delay his return, whether his mission was successful or not.
"For there is no one I can trust save you, O my friend," said the old man. "All these men, who flew to do my bidding when my eye was clear and my sword keen, are beginning to make plans for their own advantage, thinking that I cannot detect their guile. In your hands I can leave my son in confidence, but as for them, they would follow the banner of that other to-morrow if he offered them larger bribes."
Gerrard assured him that he would return as soon as he was allowed, and went back to his own tents, wondering whether he was doing well in leaving things to take care of themselves, even for so important an errand. Orders for an early start had already been issued, and when he wished to note down one or two things that had occurred during the day, his canteen served for a seat and a camel-trunk set on end for a table, Munshi Somwar Mal lending ink and a reed pen. Sleep seemed inclined to forsake the young man that night when at length he lay on his bed before the tent-door, the quarrelling round the camp-fires and the fidgeting of the horses waking him whenever he dropped into a doze. At last he succeeded in falling asleep, only to wake in a cold perspiration, and to find himself standing up and hastily girding on sword and revolver. What had awakened him he could not imagine, but he had a vague impression of a cry or wail of some sort. It was not repeated, and he unbuckled his belts and lay down again, mentally anathematizing the perfume mingled with the Rajah's tobacco, which must have given him nightmare. But when he woke again, in the grey light of early dawn, the air was full of the sound of wailing, and his Granthi officers and chief servants were gathered round his bed, respectfully waiting for his eyes to open.
"Hillo, I must have overslept!" he cried. "Get the men into order of march, Badan Hazari. I shall be dressed in no time."
"Do the orders of the Presence for the early start hold good?" asked the Granthi officer significantly.
"Why not? What in the world is that noise?"
"It is the wailing of the women in the Rajah's camp, sahib. His
Highness was found dead by his attendants in the night."
"What! murdered?"
"They say there are no marks of violence, sahib. Hearing no sound from the tent of audience after your honour had left, the servants ventured to peep in, and found his Highness stretched upon the cushions, dead."
"The Protector of the Poor is earnestly entreated to shed the light of his countenance upon the all-prevailing darkness in the camp," said a white-bearded old man, whom Gerrard knew to be the Rani's scribe. He rose hastily.