“He didn’t show it, sir. Only said he thought you would like to see the telegram. Why, his lamp has gone out!” Beltring had reached the threshold on his way back. “Good heavens! what’s that?”
A wild uproar was arising from the camp, which stretched into the desert beyond the Sarai, and alternate cries of “Dīn! Dīn!” and “Ghazis!” were discernible.
“A Ghazi raid!” cried Dick, springing for his sword. “Georgie, take the boy and Rahah, and barricade yourself in with Mab and Miss Graham. You have two revolvers, and I’ll send help as soon as possible. Take the chairs. They’ll help you to build up a corner.”
Rahah ran out with the baby, and Dick and Beltring saw the ladies safely to the door of the sick-room, then rushed to the gateway, where they stumbled over the dead body of the sentry. The tumult in the camp still continued, shouts and yells coming from several directions mingled with the sound of shots, but in each case all was quiet again before they arrived at the point of interest. Such of the troops as were new to the frontier looked somewhat ashamed when they realised that the attack which had thrown the camp into confusion was the work of only four men, but the more experienced knew that four desperate fanatics, armed to the teeth, and determined to kill until they themselves were killed, were by no means foes to be despised. The one who had fought most obstinately wore a green turban, and Dick nodded grimly as he caught sight of his face.
“Bahram Khan! I thought so,” he said. “But I’m afraid there’s been the devil’s own work done in the Sarai. Bring torches.”
A number of officers ran back with him to the gateway, where the sentry was found to have been dexterously strangled from behind. Entering the courtyard, they turned towards the Commissioner’s quarters, which were still in darkness. Suddenly Dick’s foot slipped.
“Another body here!” he said, and some one brought forward a torch. To their astonishment, it was a woman who lay before them, dressed in rich native garments, which, with the coarse chadar covering her face, were soaked with blood. She had been stabbed in the breast, but was still breathing heavily. Sending a messenger for Dr Tighe, they went on, in growing dread as to what they might find. Their fears were justified. On the verandah lay the Sikh sentry, stabbed in the back, and on the floor of his office was the body of the Commissioner, hacked and disfigured almost beyond recognition with a hundred wounds. It did not need the verdict of Dr Tighe to assure the men who stood round that life was extinct.
“What can have been the reason? Why the Commissioner and not North?” were the questions that passed from mouth to mouth, as Dick tore down a curtain and laid it reverently over the body, with the help of Dr Tighe.
“Perhaps the woman can tell us something. She seems conscious now,” said some one, but when the doctor knelt down beside her she pulled her veil feebly over her face, moaning out a name the while.
“She won’t let me touch her. She’s a pardah nishin,” he said, rising. “It’s the doctor lady she’s asking for, Major.”