CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.
OF THE SIRDAR'S OATH.
The unhappy prisoner, forced along by strong and ruthless hands,recognised that he was in the alley way upon which he had looked downfrom the parapet, what time the shrieks of the tortured man had forcedhim to stop his ears. Heaven help him! To what death of lingeringtorment were these barbarians going to put him? There was the verydoor, and through it he was now dragged.
The horrible greasy fumes which had sickened him before hung about theplace, which, entering as he did from the light, seemed to lie in asemi-gloom, suggestive of all sorts of hideous imaginings. At thefurther end was something that looked like a long iron coffin, raisedabout eighteen inches from the floor. To this he was forced forward.
Raynier's blood curdled within him as the full horror of this awfulobject broke upon him. No coffin was it, but a bath--and the iron ringsand chains let into its sides, two at each end, told their own tale. Sotoo, did the ashes of a dead fire underneath. The upper end was padded.The sufferer might not dash out his own brains; might not seek relieffrom his frightful torment that way.
Faint and sick, his senses in a whirl, he gazed stupidly at the horridthing. Was his brain giving way? It seemed so. Hardly knowing how hegot there he was outside in the air again.
"Our bathroom does not please thee, Feringhi," said a voice. Lookingup, his eyes met the baleful sneering ones of Murad Afzul.
"I have been ill with fever of late. You forget," he answered,instinctively striving to disguise the despair and terror which thesight of the horrid place had stamped upon his countenance. Then hefainted.
When he came to himself again he was in semi-darkness. A man wasbending over him, and seemed to be trying to revive him. He recognisedthe Hakim.
"Where am I? Oh!"
He had tried to rise, only to discover that he was chained by the anklesto an iron ring in the stone floor. His hands, however, were free. Hesaw further that he was in a damp and gloomy apartment akin to adungeon, a grating above the door serving to let in air and light.
"Take away your remedies, Hakim Sahib," he said, bitterly. "I have nowish to be revived for the purpose of being tortured, and I suppose itwas for that reason I was taken care of before?"
"It is the Nawab's orders," answered the other. "Ill would it fare withme did I not carry them out."
"Well, I will not help you, then."
"You will not be helping yourself in that case, Sahib," said the Hakim,"for then they would work their will on you at once. See--there isfood. Bethink. Is there no object in gaining time?"
"If so, I know not what it can be," answered Raynier. And then an ideaseized him. This man might help him to escape, of course, for a largereward. But when it was put to him the Hakim shook his head. It wasimpossible. Besides, what would be his own fate were it suspected hehad even thought of such a thing! And as though terrified at the ideahe went out, leaving the prisoner alone.
Raynier pondered over the Hakim's words. Was there significance inthem? It might be so. But why should he renew his strength in orderthe longer to endure the tortures which Mushim Khan, whom he had thoughthis friend but now proved to be a most bitter and vindictive enemy, hadin store for him? There was the food beside him, within his reach.There, too, was wine, which struck him as a strange circumstance,remembering that he was in the midst of rigid Mahomedans. Clearly hewas to be fatted up for the sacrifice, and yet--and yet--Nature wasstrong. He needed the stimulant badly, and--took it.
Immediately thereafter he fell asleep. Sleep, too, he needed badly. Inspite of his constrained attitude he slumbered hard and soundly. Oncemore he was with Hilda, and now it seemed that his whole being was boundup with hers. The horrors he had gone through, the privations andperils they had both gone through, were far behind. They knew eachother now, and heart and mind were laid bare to each other as theystood, the world outside, they two, alone. The strong, sweet dream-waverolled over his soul, and all was forgotten save that they two weretogether--together for all time.
The harsh creaking of the door, flung open, aroused him. The delusionsped in demoniacal mockery. The prison, the chains, the impendingtorture were realities.
Three persons had entered--Mushim Khan, his brother, and a third.Raynier sat up to confront them with what dignity he was able. TheNawab spoke.
"I will not waste words on thee, Feringhi. Know, then, that as ourbrother, the Sirdar Allahyar Khan, was put to death by thy father at thetime of the great rising, so must thy father's son suffer death at thehands of the brothers of Allahyar Khan, even ourselves, a life for alife, for thus is it written in the Holy Koran. Moreover, I have swornit."
The words were uttered deliberately, almost with a judicial solemnity,but the savage hatred upon the face of the speaker seemed to bestruggling with the solemnity of their utterance.
"What proof have ye of this, O Chief of the Gularzai, whom I hadreckoned my friend?" answered Raynier, "for the Prophet likewise ordersthat none be condemned without proof."
"Here is proof." And the speaker handed him the parchment he hadreceived from Hadji Haroun.
Raynier took it, studying it long and earnestly. He was conversant withPushtu, and could write it almost as well as he could speak it: and theperusal of the document only served to convince him that its substancewas, in all probability, correct; and that his father had, in hiscapacity of commanding officer, sanctioned the execution of the Gularzaisirdar as described. As to the circumstances of ignominy attendant uponthe execution, well, he knew that such things had been done in theMutiny. Moreover, his recollections of his father were such as toconvince him that at such a time the latter was not likely to have erredon the side of leniency. Then an idea struck him.
"It may be as you say, Chief of the Gularzai. It is long ago, and whocan say for certain what happened then? If it be so, I deplore it. Butyou have cited the Koran. Hear now the words of the sacred revelation:`O true believers, the law of retaliation is ordained for the slain: thefree shall die for the free, and the servant for the servant, and awoman for a woman: but he whom his brother shall forgive may be obligedto make satisfaction for what is just, and a fine shall be set on him,with humanity. This is indulgence from your Lord, and mercy.' Will yenot, therefore, forgive me, my brothers?"
There was nothing abject in his tone, no suspicion of cringing. For afew moments his listeners stood as though thunderstruck. Thisunbeliever quoted glibly from the holy volume. Then the third of thetrio, who had kept somewhat in the background and of whom Raynier hadnot taken much notice, spoke.
"Feringhi, thou hast evidently studied the revelations of Mahomed--theblessed of Allah. Wilt thou not now make profession of the faith?"
Here was a loophole. Raynier thought of what he had undergone, of howcompletely he was in the power of this unsparing and vengeful people; ofthe horrors he had witnessed, and of what might be in store for himself.He thought of Hilda Clive, and how life might hold out for him a longvista of its fairest and brightest, and the temptation was great. Buthe thought, too, on the opinions he had more than once expressed whendiscussing such "conversions," and how they were dishonouring to theBritish name. He was not an ostentatiously religious man, but when itcame to forswearing Christianity, the line had to be drawn. So heanswered,--
"I could not do that, for it would be to forswear myself. I honour yourreligion, but were I to profess it I should be speaking a lie."
Now, while he said this, Raynier's eye had rested on something--something that was in the hand of the man who had spoken last. _It wasa malacca cane_.
The blood rushed wildly through his being. He stared at the thing.There it was, a stout, silver-topped malacca cane--a very unwontedarticle in the hand of a white-clad, turbaned Gularzai. Heavens! whatdid it mean? He stared at the man who carried it--a tall, handsome,commanding-looking representative of his race--and then his mind rushedback from the stronghold of the Chief of the Gularzai, to the shouting,roaring, riotous
mob in the heart of the city of London. And this wasthe man he had rescued from its uproarious violence.
"Do you not remember me, brother?" he said, in English, his heartseeming to burst in the revulsion of returning hope. "That is the stickI armed you with when you were beset by numbers. Look! In the middleof it is the dent made by the falling iron which would otherwise havecrushed your head in."
He stopped short. No flash of recognition lit up the features of theGularzai, not the faintest sign even of having understood. He paused.Then he said, in Pushtu,--"Who is yon sirdar, Nawab Sahib?"
"Shere Dil Khan. He is my son." The answer was curt and cold. Raynierwent on,--
"If my father put thy brother to death, Nawab Sahib, I saved the life ofthy son, Shere Dil Khan. The dent in that stick was made by the ironwhich would have crushed his head. Upon the knob are the letters of myname. May I handle it for a moment? It is not a weapon--and, am I notchained?"
The man who held it stepped forward and placed it in his hand. As hedid so, with his face close to the prisoner, Raynier recognised himcompletely. It was the man he had rescued in the midst of the rough andexasperated crowd. But for all the recognition on the face of the otherit might have been a mask.
Raynier took the stick. One glance at it was sufficient. There, on themassive silver head, were intertwined the letters H.R.--his initials.
Somehow, hope died again within him. It might be that Shere Dil Khanhad forgotten his English, or he might be under some vow not to use it--and, acting on this idea, Raynier told the whole story in their owntongue. Still no sign of recognition, of corroboration lit up thatimpassive countenance. He could see that the story was aiding him notin the smallest degree, even if it were believed at all.
"Well," he concluded, realising this, "there is no gratitude in theworld. If you save a man's life, he is the one to seek out your own."
"Thou hast appealed to our mercy, Feringhi," said Mushim Khan, "and notin vain. Thou hast been shown some small glimpse of the torments we haddesigned for thee, but Allah is merciful and shall we be less so?Wherefore, these we remit and thou shalt only suffer death--death by thesword, at the rising of to-morrow's sun, in the presence of the warriorsof the Gularzai assembled here. For it has been sworn, and who maybreak an oath?"
And the three chiefs went forth, leaving the prisoner alone. This,then, was how he next saw the silver-mounted stick which had saved thelife of a man--and that man the son of his executioner. Was there sucha thing as gratitude in the world?