During this little encounter the bearers had done what might have been expected of men of their class. They had set the palki down, and stared in open-mouthed confusion, irresolutely watching the course of events. When Ahmed had disposed of his opponent, who lay groaning on the ground, they laid hands on the poles as if to make an attempt to escape with their burden. But Ahmed called to them to stand fast. He used words of Urdu, the common language of Hindustan, though to him it was a foreign tongue. The Guides, being drawn from many different races of the north-west, had developed a patois of their own—a strange compound of hill dialects with Urdu and even English. Ahmed in his early childhood had learnt to prattle in Urdu with his ayah and the other servants, and in Hoti-Mardan he had quickly picked up more than he had known before, so that his cry was quite intelligible to the bearers. But even if they had not understood his words, they could have been under no misapprehension of the meaning of his tone. They let the palki fall again, and stood trembling.

"What have you got in the palki?" asked Ahmed sharply.

The men remained silent, looking one at another: it was as though none cared to accept the responsibility of being spokesman. Ahmed had contemptuously sheathed his sword after the fall of his adversary, the cringing bearers being of no account to a Pathan. But now he made a movement as if to draw it again. It was enough. The four men made haste to speak at once, and in faltering tones confessed that there was a person in the palki.

"The headman?" cried Ahmed quickly.

"Not so. It is not a man."

"One of his wives, then?"

"Not so, O strong one: verily it is a person of the Feringhis; a missy sahib."

A missy sahib! This was strange news. Ahmed scarcely knew what to make of it.

"How comes the missy sahib here?" he asked.

"Thy servants tell the truth," said one of the men. "The missy sahib was taken this very morning by the master that now lies on the ground."

"Taken? Where from? What means this? Speak the truth, and quickly, or verily, thou son of a dog, my sword will taste somewhat of thy jellied flesh."

"This is the truth," said the man. "The missy sahib was in the city of the king, but she escaped the killing by the aid of an ayah and a khitmutgar, who took her to the housetop of a man that was friendly to the sahibs. But there were some that suspected he was not faithful to the true king Bahadur Shah——"

"Dog, remember that I serve the sahibs, and name not that master of cut-throats to me."

"Have mercy, O right-hand of the sahibs, we are but poor men. It was as thy servant said: some suspected him of favouring the sahibs, and the housetop was no longer a safe place for the missy sahib. So the ayah clad her as our women are clothed, and put ornaments about her arms and feet, and a veil over her face, and by ill-luck they passed through the gates——"

"By ill-luck, thou dog! 'Twas by the favour of Heaven."

"How should our humbleness know? They came through the gates—by the favour of Heaven—the missy sahib being called the new wife of one of the princes. We were even on our way—the missy sahib, and the ayah, and the khitmutgar, and we hired bearers also—to Karnal, when behold we were met by a zamindar of the village which your mightiness has laid waste this day. To him—it is even he that lieth now at the point of death—the khitmutgar said even as I have told, that in the palki sat the new wife of one of the princes of Delhi, supposing that he would salaam and pass on with reverence. But he saw through their pretence, and demanded that the cover should be lifted that he might see the noble lady with his own eyes. And behold, the missy sahib, being hot and in a great fear, had taken the veil from her face, and sat even as the shameless women of the Feringhis——"

"Son and grandson of dogs," cried Ahmed, "tell thy tale without this insolence, or verily I will slice thee and leave thee for carrion."

"I but repeat the words of the zamindar, O merciful. He cried out with great laughter when he saw the white face of the missy sahib, and bade us carry the palki to his village. And but a little after we had entered came one running, to say that your mightinesses were riding fast upon the place. The zamindar is not a man of war, and he lay for a time in his house, hoping that if his face was not seen by the Feringhis he would escape the edge of the sword. But when it was told him that the men of Lumsden Sahib had entered and were burning, he stowed some jewels in his pockets, and placed more in the palki—they are even beneath the cushion whereon the missy sahib sits—and he bade us hasten out of the gate with the palki, purposing to reach Gungah, ten koss to the north-east, and there dwell with his brother. And then thou didst come upon us like a swift breath, and the zamindar hath not escaped the edge of the sword. It is fate: who can strive against it? I have spoken the truth."

"Well for thee!" cried Ahmed. "And what became of the ayah and the khitmutgar?"

"Truly we left them in the house, and without doubt they are burnt up in the flames kindled by the Feringhis' servants."

Ahmed was nonplussed. He looked round for Sherdil and his party; there was no sign of them. The sooner he rejoined them the better. Suddenly he heard a voice from the interior of the palki; it was thrown open, and turning, he saw the face of a young English girl.

"You are a friend of the sahibs?" she said in faltering Urdu.

"Truly," said Ahmed, and then stood speechless. Into his mind came a dim recollection of having seen ladies such as this long years before, when he was a tiny child, before that terrible day when his father had been killed in his tent. The girl's voice recalled other voices; he seemed to hear them speaking to him, and to see tall ladies with unveiled faces bending over him, and—yes, surely one of them had given him the wooden sword which had so much amused Rahmut Khan when he had first seen him, and another had given him a little horse, on which his ayah used to draw him about the room.

"You will help me?" said the girl again in the native speech.

"Yes!" Ahmed was on the point of telling the girl that he was English like herself; she would then have greater confidence in him. But he checked himself; it was not time for that, especially with Hindus in hearing and possible danger all around. "I will help the missy sahib," he said. "What would the missy sahib wish me to do?"

"Oh, I do not know. I cannot tell what would be best. My father and mother were killed in Delhi" (her speech was broken by sobs), "and many of my friends, and I do not know whether even one of them escaped. If you take me to the sahibs you shall have much bakshish."

"I am of the Guides of Lumsden Sahib," said Ahmed simply. And then he bade the men lift the palki with its fair burden and follow him. They left the zamindar where he lay.

He reached the nullah about half-an-hour after he had left it. To his surprise, Sherdil and his comrades had disappeared. Examining their tracks he saw that they must have gone back the way they had come. Why had they deserted him? He felt uneasy. It was already late in the afternoon; Karnal, so far as he could judge after his riding across country, was at least three koss distant; and no doubt between that town and the place where he now was there were scores of villagers whose homes had been burnt, but who had themselves been more lucky than the zamindar, and escaped.

He made for the shelter of an adjacent copse, so that the party might at least be safe from observation while he decided what to do. When they were among the trees, Ahmed ordered the men to squat down beside the palki and beware of his sword if they attempted to move. A sudden rush of four men upon one would have been dangerous; but these palki-wallahs were not enterprising, and Ahmed's bold and contemptuous attitude did not encourage them to run any risks. Keeping a wary eye on them, however, he went a little apart to consider.

It was drawing towards night, and he was, as he guessed, several koss from Karnal, the nearest place where he knew there were white men. He could not ride thither and bring help for fear of what might happen during his absence. If the party set off to walk, they might easily lose the way, and possibly encounter bands of hostile villagers or even roving mutineers. In a few hours the Guides would no doubt leave Karnal for their usual night march, and his duty was to rejoin them as soon as possible. It seemed on the whole best to remain in hiding until darkness fell, and then attempt to reach the Delhi road, so as either to intercept the Guides, or, if they had already passed, to follow in their tracks. Whether he could gain the road in the darkness would depend mainly on the knowledge of the palki-wallahs, for though his own sense of locality and direction was keen, as became one accustomed to wander among the hills of the Afghan border, his course had been so erratic since he left Karnal with the Guides in the morning that he was now quite at a loss.

There was one risk to be guarded against: the escape of any of the men in the darkness. If one of them should get away, he might bring the whole countryside down upon the party. A few minutes' thought sufficed to settle that problem. As a preliminary, Ahmed made the men hand over their knives to him; the rest of his device he would put in operation when the time for starting came.

The party was not unprovided with food. Ahmed had already seen the men eating chapatis, which they had taken from their wallets, and when he went up to the palki to acquaint the missy sahib with his purpose he found her eating some fruit. The zamindar had shown forethought in thus providing against a possibly prolonged march. Ahmed found it rather difficult to explain his design to the girl, whose stock of Urdu extended little further than the ordinary phrases used between masters and servants. The girl acquiesced in his plan; she was indeed too frightened, and too anxious to gain a shelter with white people, to be able to criticize or suggest.

Before it became completely dark, Ahmed collected some long strands of a creeping plant that grew plentifully in the copse. With these he tied the bearers two by two together, in such a way that while their movements in carrying the palki would not be sensibly impeded, any attempt to take flight would be hopeless. The legs of the two men who went in front were fastened to those of the two behind, so that when they set off they would have to keep step. He had never seen a three-legged race; but if they tried to run away the result would be not unlike that when two boys insufficiently practised in that sport attempt to run: one would trip the other. The ends of the strands were so firmly knotted that they could not be undone easily, and Ahmed would have plenty of time to catch the men if they were so ill-advised as to bolt. These preparations having been made—not without sundry complaints and protests on the part of the men—Ahmed asked them whether they could find their way to the Delhi road. They eagerly professed that they knew the way perfectly; they were, in fact, so desirous of getting rid of this masterful Pathan that they would have agreed to lead him anywhere. He made them understand that any attempt at treachery would be fatal to them, while, on the other hand, there would be much bakshish if the missy sahib was brought safely to her friends. Then, a little after darkness had fallen, he mounted his horse, which had meanwhile been quietly browsing, bade the men take their places at the poles, and gave the order to start.

They marched on steadily for an hour or more, then took a short rest and set off again. Ahmed was by no means easy in mind. While he felt pretty sure that there was no enemy in sufficient force across the Delhi road to interrupt communications, he suspected that the whole country was infested with disaffected persons, and that parties of rebels and robbers were roving about, ready to swoop down upon any one worth plundering. It would matter nothing whether such a person were well or ill affected to the sahibs: unless he were accompanied by an adequate escort he would stand small chance against the rebel troops and the lawless element of the population, who had taken advantage of the disturbances to plunder their own countrymen and the hated Feringhis impartially. As he rode, therefore, Ahmed was ever on the alert to catch the first sound of a body of men approaching, or anything that should indicate the neighbourhood of a village.

But nothing occurred to cause alarm. The party marched on, through fields, over slight nullahs and across small streams, until, some time after midnight, they struck into a broad dusty track which the men said was the high-road to Delhi. Here Ahmed called a halt, and sat his horse intently listening. Had the Guides passed? he wondered. For the moment he could not tell. He heard nothing but the faint barking of dogs in the distance. He asked the men the name of the village whence the sound came. It was Panipat, they told him, about six koss south of Karnal, and probably half-a-koss from where they were at that moment standing. He was in a quandary. If the Guides had not passed, it would be well to wait for them. On the other hand, if they had passed he stood a poor chance of overtaking them. Well he knew the rate at which they could march! The four bearers, encumbered with the palki, could not move at anything like the pace of the Guides. He dared not leave them; they could not be relied on, no matter what bakshish were promised, when it was a Feringhi lady who was concerned: they might get more bakshish by delivering her up. He thought for a moment of setting her behind him on his arab and making a dash for Karnal, where she would be safe with Le Bas Sahib; but Panipat was in the way: if it were not held by the sahibs the risk was too great. On the other hand, even if he knew that the Guides were now on the road south of him, he might not overtake them before daylight, and no doubt there were other villages to pass through. Were the girl seen by any passing native, he would soon have every freebooter of the countryside upon his tracks, for he knew the extraordinary speed with which the news of such a discovery would travel. Then, his horse bearing a double burden, he could scarcely hope to outride any pursuers.

But, since delay was dangerous, it was necessary for him to make up his mind to some course, and he thought it best to push along the highway southward, keeping a sharp look-out for hostile parties. No doubt he would have sufficient warning of their presence to give him time to find some temporary hiding-place by the roadside. The absence of any sound from the north persuaded him that the Guides had already passed, and then he bethought himself that he might possibly prove it by examining the dust of the road. Dismounting, he struck a light with flint and steel, ignited his tinder, and, shielding it with his pagri, blew up a sufficient glow to throw a faint light on the road. The dust was marked with a great number of foot-prints, both of men and of horses, many of them so blurred as to be indistinguishable. But after a little Ahmed's trained eye noticed several which were clearer than the rest; without doubt they were made by the horses coming at the end of a troop. He easily distinguished the four hoof-marks of a single horse: the mark of the hind-foot coming close behind that of the fore-foot: and by the distance between the successive impressions he knew that the horse had been going at a walking pace. The print was very like that which would be made by the shoe of one of the horses of the Guides; and the evidence was so clear that a considerable troop had passed along the road not many hours before that he felt sure his comrades were ahead of him.

He wondered whether there was any chance of catching them up. It occurred to him that he might quicken the pace of the party by relieving the palki-wallahs of their burden for a time, so he asked the missy sahib, through one of the men, to alight and mount his horse while he led the animal. Tired as she was of her cramped position in the palki, and not a little discommoded by the jolting movements of the vehicle as the men trudged over the rough ground, the girl consented with alacrity. Thus lightened, the men stepped forward at a good pace—probably as fast as the Guides, whose progress was of course limited by the marching power of the infantry portion of the corps.

The march continued for several hours at a brisk rate. They skirted one village by making a detour into the fields beside the road. When they returned to the highway Ahmed noticed that the men were flagging; the palki, even without its occupant, was no light weight to bearers who had already carried it for many hours; and one of the men plucked up courage to tell their hard taskmaster that his strength was failing. But Ahmed could not venture to delay. In a fierce whisper he bade the man, who had dropped his pole, bringing the party momentarily to a halt, to push on, if he valued his life. The man obeyed with a groan, but the party had not gone much further when the girl, who had hitherto endured the fatigues and anxieties of the journey without a murmur, suddenly broke down. She would have fallen from the horse but for Ahmed's arm, and when he had carried her back to the palki he found that she had fainted. He was utterly ignorant of what to do to restore her; nothing of the kind had ever come within his experience before. But one of the men explained that she must have water, and volunteered to go and find a brook; he had a small lotah with him. Ahmed dared not trust him; the reasons for not leaving the party himself were as cogent as ever; there was nothing for it but that the whole party should leave the road and search for a stream.

The girl recovered from her swoon before their search was rewarded. Then she broke into a fit of weeping, which to Ahmed was almost as alarming. But a draught from a brook they by and by discovered revived her, and they returned to the road. The delay had cost them a good hour.

It was nearing daybreak when Ahmed heard the sound of trotting horses on the road behind. He instantly ordered the bearers to make for a patch of woodland bordering the roadside. He hoped that the horses might prove to be those of the Guides, but it was necessary to prepare for the worst. It was useless to attempt any deception in case the horsemen turned out to be enemies and discovered him: his khaki uniform would betray him. If he should pretend to have deserted from the Guides and joined the mutineers, a word from one of the palki-wallahs would be his undoing. The only chance was to remain in hiding in the copse and trust that the riders would pass by. He wondered whether any of the bearers would have sufficient courage to cry out, and so disclose their hiding-place. Dismounting from his horse, he handed the girl his knife, and stood over the four men with his sword drawn, bidding them not to make a sound if they valued their lives.

They had been but a minute or two in their place of concealment when the horsemen came up at a trot. It was still very dark, but Ahmed, peering out from among the trees, was able to see them dimly, and thought from their general appearance, and the sounds made by the horses' furnishings as they trotted past, that they were sowars. If that were the case, it was almost certain that they were mutineers; he knew that they were not Guides because they were riding in one compact troop, without an advance guard. As nearly as he could guess, they numbered about fifty.

They passed by; the immediate danger was over. But it was disconcerting to find a body of the enemy now between him and the Guides. He wondered for a moment whether the Guides were after all behind them, but dismissed that idea when he remembered the leisurely pace of the horsemen who had just gone by; they would have made greater speed had they feared pursuit. There was clearly need for redoubled carefulness. Ahmed waited a full quarter of an hour after the troop had ridden by before he gave the word to proceed. Then he went after them slowly, listening more intently than ever, both for sounds from ahead, in case they should return, and for sounds from behind, in case others were following. But after a time the tramping of the receding horses faded quite away; he heard nothing from the opposite direction, and hoped that with the morning light he would reach the bivouac of the Guides.