“May we be allowed to take part in the baby-worshipping?” asked Fred Haycraft’s voice at the end of the verandah. “We couldn’t find any servants to announce us, so we were obliged to walk in.”
“Poor old Anand Masih is seeking a little rest after the exciting events of the night,” laughed Mabel. “Walk softly, please, and come quite to this end of the verandah, so as not to disturb Georgia.”
“We felt shy because we couldn’t send in our cards properly,” said Fitz, who was Haycraft’s companion, “but when we saw you had a visitor already, we thought we might venture in. What a nice smart nursemaid Mrs North has set up!—eh, Ismail Bakhsh?”
“True, sahib; I am the Baba Sahib’s bearer,” responded the old man, with simple dignity. “Every night when I am not on guard I shall bring my mat and lie in the verandah here, to guard his sleep.”
“That’s a queer idea,” said Haycraft. “Has the Memsahib asked you to look after him?”
“Nay, sahib; but many seek to destroy the lion cub, for fear of what he will do when he is full-grown.”
“I wonder if there’s anything in that,” said Fitz. “Can it be that Bahram Khan’s men directed their fire purposely upon this courtyard, knowing that Mrs North was here?”
“There are enemies within the walls as well as without, sahib,” was the answer, as Ismail Bakhsh rocked the baby gently in his arms.
“I say, I believe I could do that!” said Fitz. “Let me have a try.”
“No, no,” said Mabel; “you’ll only make the baby cry, and hurt his nurse’s feelings. We want you and Mr Haycraft to tell us what really happened last night, and why you left us to endure such agonies of suspense for hours. I believe it was simply that we might think all the more of you when you got back.”