It was still early morning when Ahmed rode up to the red walls of Delhi; but in spite of the hour there was already much traffic through the Ajmir gate. A long line of bullock-carts was filing along the Jaipur road past the garden suburb of Paharganj, conveying country produce into the city. A regiment of sepoys was marching out of the gate towards the encampment lying across the road. To the left of the gate rose the tomb of Ghazi Khan, and in the centre of the city towered the dome and minarets of the Jama Masjid—the splendid mosque which is the Mecca of Mohammedan India. Ahmed was amazed at the vastness of this city of the Moguls. He felt as a Highland lad might feel if suddenly transplanted from his little village among the lochs and mountains to the turmoil of London.

Delhi had none of the aspects of a beleaguered city; indeed, it was never in the military sense besieged. The British force was far too small to attempt a strict investment of the great city. Men might go in and out as they pleased. The holders of the Ridge were far more closely beset. Save that his communications were open in the rear, General Barnard might himself have been considered to be in a state of siege. He was holding his ground, waiting for the opportunity to strike a blow.

Ahmed followed at the tail end of the procession of carts. As he approached the gate he observed a strong guard of armed sepoys there, and wondered whether he would have any difficulty in passing. He felt a little timid now that he was actually drawing near to the heart and focus of the great rebellion, but he crushed down the feeling, and assuming a bold front accosted one of the guard and began in his imperfect Urdu to pour out his tale of tribulation.

"Salaam, jamadar!" he said, giving the man a sausage by way of ingratiation a title at least two grades above his proper rank, and raising his right hand to his brow in due Moslem salutation; "thou dost behold one who is very thankful to Allah this day."

"Salaam, banijara," said the man. "What is this thou tellest me?"

"Thou beholdest one, a peaceable trader, as thou seest, who has escaped the very jaws of death. I was one of a small caravan bringing rich merchandise for the subahdars of the army of the faithful; nay, maybe for the most noble shadow of Allah the king himself. And lo! we were set upon in the twinkling of an eye by a troop of vile Gujars, sons of perdition, and though we fought like lions—was not Sherdil, the son of Assad, among us?—what could we do? We are not men of the sword, like thee."

"True; the camel is but as a leaf when the tiger springs upon him. Go on with thy tale."

"We were like leaves, as thou sayest, when the wind blows. We were scattered, and I in my haste quitted the road, and by the grace of Allah got myself away among trees and bushes, and so escaped. And I wandered long, and by great good fortune found myself at length upon this very road. 'Twas good fortune indeed, for had we not been molested we might verily have blundered upon the camp of the Feringhis, and then my goods would have come to the hands of vile kafirs instead of true believers. And now that I have found the city of peace, I would fain know of some good serai where men of my folk are wont to resort, so that I may rest somewhat from my journey before I carry my goods to the subahdars and have some recompense for my toils and perils."

He slipped a coin into the man's hand; bakshish would always smooth the way.

"In very truth thou hast been fortunate," said the sepoy; "yet not wholly, for it is no good time for buying and selling in Delhi. We soldiers—even the subahdars, save some few who made great plunder at the first rising—cry out for money, and there is none that hears. Yet thou mayst find some of the princes who will look at thy wares: go in peace."

And he gave Ahmed the names of two or three serais frequented by traders of his nation. Ahmed went on his way rejoicing. He had asked for the Afghan serais merely to avoid them; his imposture might be discovered if he came among genuine merchants. After a little trouble and discreet inquiries he found a humble inn at the corner of the Moti Bazar, near the centre of the city and not far from the Kotwali—the head-quarters of the city police—and having left his wares and his camel in the charge of the bhatiyara, he sallied out into the thronging streets, to learn somewhat of the immense city in which, as he supposed, his lot was for some time to be cast.

He made his way first to the Chandni Chauk, and was amazed at the shops which lined that thoroughfare. He had seen shops in Peshawar, but none like these. The street was thronged, and the people were talking excitedly in groups. Hovering on the outskirts of one of these he heard the name of Bakht Khan frequently mentioned, and by and by made out that this rebel artillery officer was expected to arrive shortly with a vast host which would sweep all the Feringhis before it. He went on until he reached the palace, and stood for some time watching the streams of people coming and going—officers, court officials, scribes, bankers—all showing signs of the same excitement. Then he passed on by the palace wall until he reached the Calcutta gate, and saw the fort of Selimgarh stretching out into the river, and learnt from a bystander whom he ventured to address that it was by this very route that the first mutineers had ridden in from Meerut; and there, a little to the left, was the Magazine, the scene of Lieutenant Willoughby's great exploit, when, after defending his post with nine companions against a horde of assailants, he at last blew it up rather than let it fall into the hands of the rebels.

When midday came he was tired and hungry, and returned to the serai for a meal. Later in the day, when the heat was past, he unloaded his bales, hired a coolie, and set forth to offer his wares to the Prince Mirza Mogul, subahdar of the volunteer regiment of native infantry, who seemed to be one of the most important persons in the city. But on arriving at the head-quarters of the regiment he found that the prince had gone to attend a darbar at the palace. Some of the subordinate officers, however, were curious to see the contents of the bale he had brought, and he displayed before them the fabrics he had purchased in Karnal with money given him by Hodson Sahib. Many of the officers, in spite of their having received little or no pay from the King of Delhi, were rich with the spoils of looted provincial treasuries, and were quite ready to bargain for the many-coloured shawls whose merits Ahmed extolled with oriental extravagance.

It takes a long time to conclude a bargain in the East, and Ahmed knew enough of the part he was to play to make no attempt to shorten the business. After haggling for an hour or two he allowed the purchasers to buy some of his goods at what they considered very low prices, not forgetting to assure them that he was being absolutely ruined, and but for the disturbance of trade, due to the upheaval, he would not dream of parting with his wares at such low figures. And he told over again the story of his providential escape from the Gujars, and made himself so pleasant that the officers gossiped freely with him about things that were happening—of the regiments that were expected to arrive in the city, the confiscation of the property of Beg Begam Shamen, the shooting of four spies who had been captured in the English camp. Above all, they complained of the stinginess of the miserable old king, who would neither pay them their arrears nor allow them to obtain their just dues by exerting pressure on the shroffs. They talked in very large terms of the wealth they would secure when the Feringhis were finally defeated, and Ahmed went away feeling that at present they had absolute confidence in their ultimate success.

Next day he heard sounds of firing, and learnt by and by that an engagement had taken place with the English at Sabzi Mandi, a suburb at the southern end of the Ridge. Presently a great mob of yelling fanatics rushed into the city with an elephant they had captured from the English, and they led it in triumph to the palace as a present for the king. Ahmed followed in their wake, accompanied by his coolie with a bale. He had learnt that a regiment of sepoys was quartered in temporary barracks close to the palace, and it seemed likely that the officers might be in the mood to become purchasers. On reaching the barracks he found that they had gone to the palace to join in acclaiming the leaders of the force which had that day, according to their own account, done prodigious execution among the enemy. Ahmed was not sorry; while waiting for the return of the officers he would have an opportunity of gleaning a little information from the men. And so, after a little exchange of courtesies, he said—

"Without doubt such fine men as you must have a famous warrior as leader."

"Without doubt, though we know him little yet," was the reply. "He is, at any rate, a fellow-countryman of yours, O banijara, and a very devout man."

"What! Has he not led you against the Feringhis? Surely in no better way could he prove his devoutness."

"That is very true, and he will lead us when the time comes. There is no doubt of our bravery; we came from Nimuch, and were not admitted to the city until we had covered ourselves with glory in a fight with the English. But our subadhar has only of late been appointed to command us, and since then we have not been outside the walls. We lost very heavily at Badli-ki-serai, the day before those Guides—accursed traitors—came into the English camp. We killed thousands and thousands of the English, but could not utterly defeat them for want of ammunition. And our subahdar was killed. Though our new subahdar has not fought with us yet, he must be a very brave man, or our king would not have appointed him over the heads of other officers who led us."

"It is well you have a subahdar so much to your mind," said Ahmed.

"He is indeed a good man," said another sepoy. "These are hard times, and the great one knows how unjust it is to forbid us to take what we can. He shuts one eye, and if that eye is turned to us when we are taking a little loot—why, Allah is good. In truth"—and here the man dropped his voice—"a part of our loot is set aside, and if it does not find its way to the subahdar, I know not where it goes. 'Twas only yesterday we roasted a rascally shroff until he showed us where his money-bags were hidden. That is as it should be, for the shroffs being vile Hindus, it is not meet that the faithful should want while the unbelievers are waxing fat with great gain. In truth, good banijara, Minghal Khan is a noble officer, and if you do but wait a little, maybe he will buy somewhat of you, seeing that you are of his race."

Ahmed wondered whether he had concealed the start of surprise he felt he had involuntarily given when the name of Minghal Khan was mentioned. That wily enemy of his father was here in Delhi, then, playing a new part. His impulse was to depart at once, lest Minghal should return and discover him. His disguise, to be sure, was good: it was hardly likely that any one who knew Ahmed the boy would recognize him in the bearded trader—and Ahmed found the beard, fixed on with a kind of glue, decidedly uncomfortable. But Minghal was an adept at disguises himself, as his appearance at Mardan as a fakir proved; and if he heard this supposed trader's voice, Ahmed feared that he was lost.

As ill-luck would have it, before he could decently break off his conversation and take his departure, a jamadar of the regiment returned, and, seeing the bundle, demanded that it should be opened. There was no help for it; Ahmed had to display his wares, and was immediately engaged in a haggling bout. Being thoroughly uneasy, he determined to cut the business short, and indeed concluded a bargain with a rapidity and at a sacrifice that evidently surprised his customer. Ahmed hastened to assure him that at an ordinary time he would rather starve than accept such a price, but what was a poor trader to do in these times of trouble? He must take what he could get and be thankful.

The natural result of this was that the customer hesitated. Perhaps if he haggled a little longer he would get the article—a fine embroidered shawl—still cheaper. But Ahmed now spoke up resolutely.

"No, I must make sacrifices; it is fate; but I will not give my goods away. Here, Ali, the hazur does not want the shawl. Roll it up in the bundle; we will be gone."

And then the jamadar, fearing he might lose his bargain after all, closed with the offer, and paid the price.

It was only just in time. The coolie was actually rolling up the bundle when Minghal Khan himself, accompanied by two or three subordinate officers, turned the corner, and approached the door of the barracks at which the chaffering had been going on. Ahmed instinctively bent down, in spite of his disguise, to avoid recognition, and helped the man to tie up the bundle. One of the sepoys with whom he had been in conversation nudged him.

"That is our noble subahdar," he said in a whisper.

Ahmed made but a slight sign that he heard. He did not venture to look up until Minghal Khan had passed by. Then he said—

"Without doubt he is a very devout man, but does he seem fit to command such fine warriors as you? Truly he has not the figure of a great commander. Nevertheless the king knows best."

"And will you not show him your goods?"

"Another time. The great man talked very earnestly with his friends. It is certain he is occupied with weighty matters. It would not beseem my insignificance to intrude upon him now. Salaam!"

He went back to the serai and dismissed the coolie. He had had enough of playing the trader for that time. The rest of the day he spent in wandering about the city, haunting the gates, noting the strength of the sepoys at the bastions, and picking up what scraps of information he could.

That night, under cover of the darkness, he sought out the house of the Maulavi Fazl Hak, who, while in high favour with the king, was secretly in the confidence of Rajab Ali Khan, the organizer of Hodson's spies. It was to him that Ahmed was to make his reports, and by him that the means of conveying his information to the British lines would be arranged. He was admitted to the presence of the maulavi, a man of dignified aspect, with eyes of particular brilliance. Fazl Hak was convinced from the first that the cause of the mutineers was hopeless, and advised the king many times during the siege to make his peace with the sahibs before it was too late.

"I am Ahmed Khan," said the visitor, after salutations had been exchanged, "and I bring greeting from the Maulavi Rajab Ali."

"Yes. You came in yesterday by the Ajmir gate."

"True," said Ahmed, somewhat surprised.

"And you took up your abode in the serai of Gopal Ali by the Moti Bazar."

"It is so," said Ahmed, wondering more and more.

"And you have sold goods to officers of the regiments of the Prince Mirza Mogul and Minghal Khan."

"All this is true," said Ahmed, feeling strangely uncomfortable; "and yet I know not how it reached your ears."

"That is no matter. It is my business to know things. And now, what can I do for you?"

"I would send a message to Hodson Sahib."

"Well, I have been asked to assist an Afghan trader named Ahmed Khan. That was Rajab Ali's word. I will do all I can. Say on. What is the message?"

"I must say it to a munshi, who will write with a pen what I speak with my lips."

"I will write. Speak."

Then Ahmed began, in the grave and earnest manner of one engaged in an important transaction, to describe what he had seen, and relate what he had heard. For some little while Fazl Hak wrote with the finest of pens, in diminutive characters, on paper so thin that Ahmed marvelled it was not pierced. The maulavi's grave face expressed nothing of what he thought; perhaps one who knew him better might have detected a slight twinkle beneath his veiling eyelids, and the play of his lips behind their curtain of beard. All at once he stopped writing, and looking up at Ahmed, said—

"Does a man cook eggs that are already eaten? This that you say, Ahmed Khan, is a twice-told tale. The oldest of your news went to the English three days ago; the newest, a little ere the gates were shut."

Ahmed flushed, and looked exceedingly abashed. He was chagrined at his failure, and annoyed that Fazl Hak had let him go on even so long dictating his stale news. Something in the maulavi's manner suggested that he was not wholly pleased at Ahmed's presence in Delhi. Perhaps he thought that his friend Rajab Ali might have consulted him before sending a new and untried spy into the city. And if this was indeed his feeling, how well, thought Ahmed, was it justified? Was this man omniscient, that nothing could escape him? Ahmed felt thoroughly disheartened. What could he do? He would only make himself foolish in the eyes of the sahibs if he sent them old news, even as he had already made himself foolish in the eyes of Fazl Hak.

"Go on," said the maulavi. "Let me write some new news."

"Of what use, O wise one? It were but waste of breath."

"Yet go on. Who can tell but that the wind may have carried one little seed to your ear?"

"A man was hanged to-day on a tree before the Kotwali, it being supposed he was concerned in the making of a mine that was discovered by the Kashmir gate."

"And a man in the garb of a fakir," said the maulavi, as if in continuance of the report, "was seized at the Ajmir gate, and it being suspected that he was a spy, he was killed. Go on."

"Bakht Khan with his force from Bareilly has halted at the tomb of Safdar Jang."

"That was yesterday. He is now at Ghaziabad. Go on."

"I will even go to my place, and trouble you no more until I have learnt somewhat that no one else can know. Is it not vain to pour water into a vessel that is already full?"

And then Fazl Hak laid down his pen and smiled. It was as though he was satisfied with having impressed Ahmed with a sense of his knowledge and of his own insignificance.

"Come, let us talk as friends," he said. "You are but a youth in these things, in spite of your beard." ("He does not know of my disguise, then," thought Ahmed; this was a little cheering.) "And for one who is but beginning you have not done amiss. I perceive that you have a quick eye and a ready ear, and if, when these troubles are over, you care to enter my service, without doubt you will in due time become the possessor of many rupees."

"I thank you," said Ahmed, the sting of his humiliation somewhat mollified; "but when I have found the hakim I shall return to my own place."

"The hakim! What is this about a hakim?"

The maulavi's evident surprise pleased Ahmed: here was something else that he did not know.

"I came not only to learn things about the rebels," he said, "but to discover the whereabouts of an English hakim who is concealed somewhere in the city—Craddock Sahib; maybe you know somewhat of him?"

"It was told me that he was slain. How know you that he is yet alive?"

"A chit was carried from him to his daughter in Karnal; therefore am I here."

"I knew it not, and it is good knowledge, for Craddock Sahib is a good hakim, and cured me of a fever."

"Then you will help me to find him?"

"That I cannot do; I have too much to do otherwise, and further, it might bring me into great peril. Already I run great risks. Is it not known who carried the chit?"

"A man who would say nothing, if indeed he knew anything. The missy sahib thought that her father might have been saved by one of his servants: the khansaman, Kaluja Dass, seemed to be a true servant. Know you aught of him?"

"No. I know much, as you have perceived, but I do not know the whereabouts of every khansaman who served the English before the troubles. But I can soon discover."

He clapped his hands, and a chaprasi appeared. The maulavi gave him a few instructions in a low tone, and the man went out again.

"He will assuredly learn what we desire to know. Until he returns refresh yourself. There are sherbets at your service, also a hookah."

Ahmed took the sherbets, but declined the hookah. In the course of an hour the man came back, and spoke apart with his master. Then he disappeared.

"It is vain," said Fazl Hak. "The khansaman has become a rebel. He serves Minghal Khan, who now occupies Craddock Sahib's house. The khansaman, Kaluja Dass, is heard daily cursing the sahibs whom formerly he served, and verily he hates them above measure, or he would not have taken service with Minghal Khan. You must seek elsewhere for the preserver of the hakim. And if you find him, let me know; I would do somewhat for Craddock Sahib."