One afternoon, about ten days after the arrival of the Guides, an orderly came to Captain Daly's tent, where the captain was sitting on a camp-stool at the door, drinking a cup of tea with Lieutenant Kennedy.

"The general's compliments, sir," said the orderly, saluting, "and will you kindly step over to his tent for a minute or two?"

"Immediately," said Captain Daly. "Orders for to-morrow, I suppose," he added to Kennedy, as he got up to go.

When he entered General Barnard's tent, the general handed him a letter, saying—

"What do you make of that, Daly?"

Daly took the letter, and read, in a sloping angular hand, as follows—

"Dear General Barnard—

"My father is safe. How thankful I am! And I know you will be glad too. Yesterday I received the enclosed note from him; you see it is written on the back of a torn label. He is in Delhi, but does not say where; I suppose he was afraid to write too much in case the chit fell into the hands of the mutineers. The man who brought it knows nothing; perhaps it is that he knows but will not tell. Will you try to find out where my dear father is? Some good friend must be hiding him. I know you have spies in the city, and I should be so happy if you could find out something more about him, and whether he is well, and many, many other things. Do help me, there's a good friend.

"Yours sincerely,

"Mary Craddock.

"P.S.—Perhaps that young Guide who saved me from the horrid men would go into the city. He would do anything for me, I know."

"Just like a girl," said Daly, handing the letter back.

"Now that's not fair," said the kindly old general. "Wait till you have daughters of your own, Daly. It is good news that Craddock is still alive; his wife, poor woman, was killed as she was escaping. He and I are old friends. D'you know him?"

"No. But the idea is impossible, of course. Without more information it would be like looking for a needle in a bottle of hay. Besides, he's in hiding; no one would have the ghost of a chance of finding him."

"One of his servants may be faithful, and keeping him concealed."

"Yes, but better not set anybody inquiring too closely for Craddock's servants. If those fiends suspect one of them is hiding an Englishman it will be all up with him and his master too."

"Still, Craddock is my friend, and I stood godfather to his girl. Couldn't one of Hodson's spies help us? Or this Guide she mentions—what about him?"

"He's a clever young fellow, no doubt—showed pluck and resource in saving the girl; but I don't know that I should like to send him into that wasps' nest. One of Hodson's spies would run less risk."

"Well, we'll ask Hodson. Poor fellow! He is rather knocked up, I'm afraid."

The general sent an orderly to ask Lieutenant Hodson to visit him, and in a few minutes he appeared. The case was put to him, and he read Mary Craddock's letter.

"All my men are out," he said. "Let's have a look at this man of yours, Daly. Who is he?"

"A Pathan," replied Daly, and related how Ahmed had rescued the girl.

"A likely fellow. Have him up, general."

Ahmed, in company with Sherdil, was eating a mess of rice stewed in a soup of sheep's tail, when a naik of the corps came up and said that the general wished to see him.

"Hai!" said Sherdil, with a sigh. "Now it is coming, Ahmed-ji. Verily thou wilt be a dafadar, or maybe a jamadar, before Sherdil, son of Assad. What must be will be."

Ahmed wondered what the summons to the general's presence could mean. He had had a part in the brushes with the enemy, which had been of daily occurrence since the corps arrived; but he had done nothing to signalize himself. Hodson gave him a quick look as he came up and saluted.

"Your name?" he said in the Pashtu tongue.

"Ahmed, son of Rahmut Khan of Shagpur, sahib," said the boy.

"A good specimen of the breed," said Hodson to the others. "The general wants you to go into the city," he added, speaking again in Ahmed's own language. There was no officer in India more expert than Hodson in the speech of the natives.

"I am ready, sahib," said Ahmed at once.

"You'll have to pretend to be a mutineer, you know."

"With the hazur's pardon I will not do that. There is no need."

"Then how will you go? The khaki would betray you."

"I would go, sahib, as I went with Sherdil, son of Assad, to Mandan, the village of Minghal Khan."

"Ah! and how was that?"

Ahmed told how the company of Afghan traders had entered the village, and about the box containing porcelain from Delhi. He related the story simply, without any of the boastful garniture which comes so readily to an oriental's lips. The officers listened with interest, Hodson keeping his keen blue eyes fixed on the boy's face.

"This is the oddest Pathan I ever came across," he said in English when Ahmed had finished the story. To Ahmed he said, "Then you will go as an Afghan trader? How will you do that? Traders do not go alone."

"If I might have Sherdil, son of Assad, and Rasul Khan, and Dilawur——"

"No, no, that won't do.—He wants half your corps, Daly.—You must go alone."

"As the hazur pleases." He paused, and thought for a minute, the officers watching him. "I will go alone, sahib," he said. "The tale will be that I was one of many, travelling towards Delhi with Persian shawls for the princes' women. And we were set upon by a band of Gujars, and I alone escaped."

"But if you go alone the Gujars may catch you, for of course you cannot go to the city from the Ridge; you must approach as from a distant part."

"It is as the sahib says."

"You will take the risk?"

"If the captain sahib commands."

"Never met so direct a fellow," said Hodson to the others. "My spies have a good deal to say about bakshish, as a rule. Well," he went on in Pashtu, "what will you want?"

"Clothes, shawls, and a camel, sahib."

"And where will you get them?"

"In the bazar at Karnal, sahib."

"Steal them, eh?"

"Buy them with the hazur's rupees," said Ahmed, with a smile.

"And what are you going to do in Delhi?"

"I wait for commands, sahib."

"Can you write?"

"No, sahib."

"Of course not. Then you will be no good to me."

"But with rupees I can pay a munshi, sahib."

"He is our man," said Hodson in English. "He has an answer for everything, and judging by the way he told us his story just now we shan't have so much trouble in sifting his information as we have with Rajab Ali's friends."

Rajab Ali was a one-eyed maulavi, an old friend of Sir Henry Lawrence, whose many connections about the court of Delhi frequently sent Hodson news of what was going on in the city. These communications were sometimes made verbally by trusty messengers, sometimes in writing, on tiny scrolls of the finest paper, two and a quarter inches long by one and a half broad. The writing on them was so minute that the translation when written out filled more than two pages of large letter paper. But the actual information they contained was so scanty, and so much embellished in the manner no oriental can avoid, that the separation of the corn from the chaff gave Hodson a great deal of trouble. Moreover, being written by hangers-on of the court, they included a vast amount of unreliable gossip and hearsay. Hodson welcomed the opportunity of gaining news that might be gleaned among the people themselves. He had reason to believe that a great number of the more respectable inhabitants of Delhi, who had had experience of the benefits of orderly government, deplored the excesses of the sepoys and badmashes of the city, and the disorders that sprang from the weakness of the king. It would be a material gain to the besiegers to learn how far that feeling extended, and how far the normal population would support the hordes of rebels who were constantly pouring into the city.

"You will go among the people," said Hodson to Ahmed, "into the bazars, among the sepoys, and listen to their talk, and find out what they think and what their hearts are. You will learn who comes into the city, and how many they are, and what news they bring from other parts; and you will go to Fazl Hak, a maulavi to whom you will be recommended by Rajab Ali, and make him write all this down, saying no more than the truth, and these letters you will send to me, cunningly concealed, by messengers who will be appointed. Is it understood?"

"Hazur, it is understood."

"And there is something else, but always have in mind that the other comes first. The missy sahib whom you saved from the zamindar has a father in Delhi, but she knows not where. The General Sahib wishes you to learn, if you can, where he is. He is a hakim; Craddock Sahib is his name; and we think that he may have been hidden away by one of his servants. Remember, to ask openly for either the sahib or his servants may be death to them both. If you find the sahib, and see any way by which he may escape to us, well. But do not attempt to bring him away unless it can be done with little fear. He is the father of the missy sahib."

"Even as Rahmut Khan is my father," said Ahmed.

Hodson did not guess the thought that prompted this apparently inconsequent statement. He knew nothing, nor did the other officers, of Rahmut Khan's fate.

"And you must tell none of your comrades of this task we have given you—not even Sherdil, son of Assad, who appears to be your chief friend. I know that Sherdil, he has a moist tongue. Where pots are, there will be a clatter, as they say in your country. You will start——"

Here he was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a bugle. Immediately afterwards an officer galloped up.

"The Pandies are attacking our right rear with two thousand men and six guns, sir," he said.

"By George! that's a new move," said the General. "Off with you, Daly; Grant will want all the help he can get. Not you, Hodson; you're not fit to sit a horse yet. You had better take this young Pathan and settle things with him. I will see you again in the morning."

Thus it was that Ahmed had no part in the fight at Nawabganj—one of the most critical moments of the siege. Under cover of the gardens that dotted the broken ground on the right of the British rear a large body of all arms of the enemy had moved up, taking Sir Hope Grant, who was in command, completely by surprise. He had only the Guides cavalry, a portion of the 9th Lancers, and four guns to meet the attack. As soon as Captain Daly arrived on the scene, he was detached with two guns under Lieutenant Hills, a troop of Lancers, and the Guides, and found himself faced by a huge mass of infantry and cavalry, with six or eight guns, in his immediate front. There was nothing to fall back upon, so, leaving a handful of Guides to protect the guns, he detached the rest to clear the left flank, already threatened by the enemy's horse. Lieutenant Hills got his guns into action, and the little force was bravely holding its own when Major Tombs hurried up with the remainder of the guns. The mutineers pressed on in swarms, dodging among the trees, and when they observed the weakness of the force opposed to them, and the absence of infantry, they began to close in, until they could pick off Major Tombs' men as they served the guns. There was a danger that the defenders would be overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers.

"I fear I must ask you to charge, to save my guns," said Major Tombs to Daly.

Daly was the only British officer with the cavalry. Waving his sword, he called on his Guides to charge. The little band dashed forward in the gathering mist, cut their way right through the crowd of infantry, and never checked until they reached the enemy's guns. The gunners fled, the infantry was thrown into disorder, and the bold and perilous movement had the effect of clearing the front and allowing time for reinforcements to come up.

A bullet struck Daly in the left shoulder, and he fell from his horse. In the excitement of the charge his plight was unnoticed. Search was made for him when the men were returning, and they could not find him in the dark, until one of the enemy, who had been a jamadar in the 1st Oudh Irregular Cavalry, pointed out his whereabouts. His wound proved so serious as to incapacitate him, and indeed he never recovered the full use of his left arm, so that when Lieutenant Hodson called on the General next day to report the arrangements he had made with Ahmed, he learnt that he was to command the Guides until Daly had recovered.

Next day Ahmed set off for Karnal with a returning convoy. Sherdil was anxious to know what had passed at his interview with the General, still more when he learnt that he was leaving for Karnal. But Ahmed told him nothing except that he had been entrusted with an errand, and might not see him again for some time.

On arriving at Karnal, Ahmed changed his uniform for the ordinary dress of an Afghan trader, and purchased with money given him by Hodson a number of shawls. He presented to Mr. Le Bas a letter from Hodson explaining his mission, and had an interview with Miss Craddock in that gentleman's house.

She told him no more than he already knew, and when he asked which of her father's servants was most likely to have befriended him she was puzzled to answer.

"We thought them all faithful," she said; "but whom can we trust in these times? They were all good servants; we thought a world of Kaluja Dass, our khansaman; and Sakun, one of our chaprasis, was always ready to run errands for me, even when his work for my father was done."

The girl was delighted that her suggestion to General Barnard had borne fruit, and promised Ahmed much bakshish if he could send her news of her father. And then, having disguised himself by means of a black beard and moustache, Ahmed set off in a day or two on his adventurous mission.

He rode out on a camel, reluctantly leaving his horse, Ruksh, behind. The shawls were strapped in packs before him, and he carried no visible arms except an Afghan knife; but he had a pistol in his outer garment, and a talwar was concealed between the packs on his camel's back. Until he came within twelve miles of Delhi he kept to the great trunk road, on which troops and armed convoys passed so frequently that it was fairly safe for travellers. More than once he was stopped and questioned by parties of soldiers, but the pass given him by Mr. Le Bas satisfied them, and he was allowed to proceed.

He had decided to approach Delhi from the south-west. He struck off, therefore, in the direction of Bahadurgurh, and was within seven miles of his destination when a heavy storm of rain came on, drenching him to the skin. The camel is a beast of most uncertain temper, and in the midst of the storm Ahmed's steed suddenly sank on its knees beneath a large banian-tree that stood solitary by the roadside, tucked its legs under it, and refused to budge. Ahmed was well acquainted with the ways of camels, and knew that no coercion would make the animal move until it pleased: all that he could do was to wait in patience for its sulky fit to pass. Fortunately it had chosen for its resting-place a spot where the banian-tree afforded some shelter from the rain, and from the sun when the rain ceased. Swampy paddy fields lay on both sides of the road, and muggy steam rose from the ground under the sun's heat, making Ahmed feel very uncomfortable. He tramped up and down for a time, hoping that the camel would rise; but as there was no sign of any change of mood in it, he by and by spread a mat by the animal's side, and squatted on it, leaning against the camel, prepared to make the best of the situation. He ate some of the food he had brought with him, and then, it being midday and hot, he fell asleep. A Pathan sleeps like a rabbit, with only one eye shut, and Ahmed would wake at the slightest sound. If a band of mutineers should come upon him he knew that there was no escape for him, so that whether awake or asleep he would be in the same predicament.

It was late in the afternoon when he awoke. Nothing had disturbed his rest; the animal had not moved. Ahmed got up to try the effect of a little coaxing; it was quite time the camel came to a reasonable frame of mind. As he moved towards the animal's head he noticed a man approaching across the fields. He carried a lathi, and in dress and appearance looked like a ryot. The man stopped short when he caught sight of Ahmed's turban. Apparently he had supposed that the camel lying in the road was untended. Ahmed looked at him and he looked at Ahmed. Then he drew a little nearer and shouted a salutation.

"Salaam, sarban, what is amiss?"

"Not a great matter, stranger," said Ahmed. "The camel does but take a rest."

"Thou hast without doubt come far?"

"That is possible."

"And is it far thou goest?"

"Even to the city of the king."

"Have a care lest thou fall among the Feringhis. What is the news whence thou comest?"

"Nay, thou wilt have news, being so near the city. What is said here, stranger?"

"Why, that Bakht Khan is on his way hither with 50,000 men, and the Shah of Persia has taken Lahore, and Jan Larrens was caught as he sought to escape on an elephant, and all men knew him by the wounds on his back. The accursed Feringhis will soon be altogether destroyed, that is certain."

"If it be Allah's will."

To this the ryot made no reply. He had stood at a distance during the conversation, every man being suspicious of every other in this time of unrest and upheaval. Paying him no further attention, Ahmed went to the camel's head and tried to induce the animal to get up. He did not relish the prospect of remaining all night in the open, liable to be drenched by another rain-storm. But the beast was obstinate. Even when Ahmed offered it the last of his chapatis, its only response was a savage bite at the hand which fed it, a vicious attack that Ahmed only escaped by a hair's breadth. The ryot stood for a few minutes watching these ineffectual attempts, then shouted a farewell and moved away.

Ahmed was annoyed. To an oriental time is nothing; but for the possible inconvenience of the situation he might have been content to wait the animal's pleasure. But he felt that the sooner he was in Delhi the better. And it suddenly occurred to him that his position might prove even more inconvenient than he had hitherto reckoned for. The ryot who had just disappeared had probably returned to his home in some not distant hamlet. He would almost certainly tell the people about the recalcitrant camel, and they might see a chance of helping themselves to its load. One solitary trader, even though an Afghan, would be no match, they would think, for a band of lathi-wallahs. Ahmed wished he had seized the man, and held him at least until the camel had recovered its temper. It was too late to think of that now; the ryot was quite out of sight, and Ahmed had perforce to return to his mat.

In the course of an hour he had reason to wish that the idea of arresting the man had occurred to him sooner. He saw in the distance a group of at least half-a-dozen men approaching, all carrying lathis except one, who had a matchlock. They might, of course, have been induced by mere curiosity to come and see the amusing spectacle of an Afghan baffled by a camel. But belonging himself to a robber tribe, Ahmed suspected that their motive was not so peaceable. Well, they should not despoil him without a fight. They would indeed hardly expect to do so, for, though a trader, he was an Afghan, and if they knew anything of Afghans they would know that he would not yield without offering resistance. But they were six to one!

Fortunately Ahmed had some little protection in the great bulk of the camel and in the banian-tree behind him. While they were still a great way off, he slipped his talwar from its covering, and laid it close to his hand, ready for emergencies. He had, besides, his pistol and his knife. But he felt that he was in an awkward predicament. The matchlock would carry further than his pistol; the man who bore it had only to keep out of range and "pot" him at his leisure. Even if the man missed him, he might hit the camel, and then the animal, if not mortally wounded, would probably rise quickly enough and bolt in an entirely wrong direction. There was just a chance that the man, not suspecting him to bear firearms, might come so near that he would be able to get first shot; that indeed seemed to be his only chance.

He stood behind the camel and watched them. While they were still too far away for the matchlock-bearer to fire with any certainty of hitting him, he shouted—

"Eo! eo! Who are you, and what do you want?"

Like all hill-men, he had a very clear, ringing voice, and the note of authority in his tone caused them to halt. Then one of them called back in answer—

"We have come to help you with your rogue of a camel."

"I want no help," he replied. "The camel will rise when Allah wills. I would not trouble you."

There was silence for a moment, then another voice cried—

"We know not who you are. We want no Afghans here. You must come with us to our village, and our headman shall hear who you are and say what shall be done. It may be that he will send you to the chief of Bahadurgurh."

"What talk is this?" cried Ahmed. "I am a trader, as you see, and I carry my wares to Delhi. What has the chief of Bahadurgurh to say to the king?"

"That we shall see," replied the man truculently, advancing. "It will be better for you to come with us quietly."

"You had better return to your dogs' kennels before you come to harm," cried Ahmed, flourishing his talwar. "As you perceive, I am armed, and I will send you back without arms and legs if you come within my reach."

The men laughed. What was a talwar against a matchlock? The man carrying the firearm came on ahead of the rest, and advancing to within a short distance of Ahmed he set the weapon to his shoulder and proceeded coolly to take aim. This was exactly what Ahmed had calculated upon. The firing of a matchlock was a somewhat lengthy operation, especially to a villager. Before the man had time to fire, Ahmed quickly changed the talwar from his right hand to his left, drew his pistol, and fired over the camel's back. The man dropped without a sound. At the same moment Ahmed flung down his pistol, and taking the sword again in his right hand, drew his knife, vaulted over the animal, and dashed straight at the knot of villagers.

Taken aback by this unexpected stroke from a man they supposed to be helpless, the villagers stood irresolute. Before they had recovered their wits, Ahmed was upon them. The sight of his sword flashing in the glow of the setting sun was too much for most of them; they took to their heels and fled in all haste across the fields. One or two, apparently so paralyzed with consternation that they could not even run, seized their lathis and made feeble attempts to parry the descending talwar. But with a couple of swift strokes Ahmed settled their account. Then, incensed at their unprovoked attack, he made off at full speed after the runaways. They were no match for him in fleetness, and, realizing this, they scattered, howling. Ahmed could not catch them all; he ran after the one whom he recognized as the man that had first discovered him. A pursuit of half-a-mile over the squelching soil brought him within arm's length, and the wretched man paid the penalty.

It would be dangerous to pursue the rest, loath as he was to let any of them go unpunished. And reflecting that as soon as they got back to their village they would without doubt bring others with firearms to deal with him, he saw that he must lose no time in making his escape. The camel must be compelled to move. But when he turned, he saw that the camel, probably startled by the shot, was already on its feet, and shambling along the road in the direction from which he had come. Sprinting after it, he lugged it round until its head was again turned towards Delhi, walked by its side until he picked up the pistol, then leapt to his seat, and set off, as quickly as the clumsy animal would move, towards his destination.

He had not ridden for more than half-a-minute when he reflected that he was not even yet out of danger. If the villagers pursued him, they could easily overtake him before he had gone many miles. Instantly he drove the camel off the road on to the field. When he had gone a hundred paces he stopped, slipped off, and with the quickness of a well-trained scout proceeded to obliterate the traces of the animal's feet back to the point at which it had started to go in the opposite direction, the camel meanwhile stopping to drink at a deep pool. In a few minutes he was back again, remounted, and continued his journey.

It was by this time nearly dark. After riding a few miles he saw, somewhat nearer the road, a small shrine amid trees, such as are to be found in countless numbers dotted over India. It struck him that, since the gates of Delhi must now be shut, he might well shelter for the night beneath the walls of the shrine. He halted, tethered the camel to one of the trees, and made himself as comfortable as he could.

An hour or two afterwards he heard the distant sounds of a body of men approaching. Were they fellow-villagers of the men he had punished, on the hunt for him? Devoutly he hoped that the camel would not betray him by a grunt. The sounds drew nearer—voices, the tramp of feet on the road. They passed. For the time he was safe. Tired as he was, he durst not now go to sleep. The men might return; an unlucky grunt might bring them upon him. In anxious suspense he waited. The hours are long to one who waits. At last he heard faint sounds from beyond him. Men were approaching him again. He stood, grasping his weapons. The sounds grew louder. The marching men were now abreast of him. If they had been his comrades of the Guides they would find the tracks of his camel even in the dark. But they passed; the sound of their marching grew fainter; and at last Ahmed's uneasiness left him, and, wrapping himself in his cloak, he lay down to sleep.