Next morning Ahmed found his camel contentedly munching at his stall, with no visible diminution of his hump; and his bales of goods were ranged in decent order along the walls, though when he came to examine them he found that their contents were strangely mixed. But he said nothing of that; he only expressed to the innkeeper his gratification that the night had seen such wonders wrought, and after a simple breakfast he went out and, hiring no coolie this time, took a few of his more costly wares to visit his old friend the darwan of Minghal Khan. Cordial greetings passed between them; the darwan had pleasant recollections of the dainties with which he had been regaled by this excellent Pathan at his former visit. Then he asked why his friend had been so long in hiding the light of his countenance from him. Ahmed told him that he had been ill, and made him laugh heartily at his story of how the rascally innkeeper had brought a dead camel to life and restored stolen goods in the space of one night.

"And now, good darwan," he said, "thinkest thou I might show some of my wares to your noble master? My business has halted while I was sick, and I must needs sell somewhat lest I starve."

"Truly, my friend, it is an ill time. The great man has no money; we, his poor creatures who are not worthy to unloose his shoes, get no wages, and our khansaman sells more and more of our chattels day by day to get the wherewithal to buy our poor food. And I fear me, even if the illustrious one were as rich as Nadir Shah of old renown, it would be vain to approach him now. But a little while ago there came a chaprasi with news that his regiment had been rioting. Indeed (and this khabar was whispered in my ear) the men tried last night to gain some little sustenance from the plunder of some new men who have come—woe upon them!—to this sorely crowded city. And by ill-hap they had the worse of the encounter; verily these new-comers sting like scorpions; and their leader, one Asadullah, has gone to the palace to complain to the Protector of the Poor, our illustrious king. The great one is even now clothing himself in haste to go also to the palace and acquaint the Illustrious with the truth of the matter. And so it is an ill time, as I said; neither his pocket nor his temper suits with business of thy sort."

"Hai! how wretched is my lot!" said Ahmed.

"Here is the great one's horse," said the darwan, as a sais led the animal from the courtyard and began to walk him up and down. "And behold the great one himself."

He rose from his squatting posture at the door as Minghal came out. The subahdar was clearly in a state of great annoyance. He kicked aside the small bundle which Ahmed had laid on the ground, and bade him betake himself to Jehannum.

"Merciful one, be not wroth with the meanest of thy slaves," said Ahmed, salaaming humbly. "If I might but be allowed to see thy face at some more convenient season! I have wares of great beauty and worth, even such as might delight the eyes of the hazur himself and——"

"Bas, bas!" cried Minghal. "Get thee hence and trouble me not."

He called to the sais to bring up his horse.

"There is a shawl woven most marvellously with gold threads," Ahmed said, with an air of the greatest deference. "If the magnificent one would but deign the wink of an eye——"

"Enough, I say!" cried Minghal, with his foot in the stirrup. Then a thought seemed to strike him. "Come to me to-morrow; I may then cast an eye on thy worthless trumpery."

"Hazur, thy servant's heart leaps for joy," said Ahmed, salaaming, and Minghal sprang to the saddle.

"Tell the khansaman to make ready a repast fit for princes against my return this night," he called to the darwan. "I shall not return until the sun goes down."

Then he rode off on his clattering way to the palace.

"Thou art favoured above all," said the darwan to Ahmed, "and, being a just man, thou wilt not forget to let a little flow over from thy full cup?"

"My prosperity shall be thine, worthy darwan; and the thought of the great one's favour to come will be as a delicious perfume to me this day."

On leaving the darwan, Ahmed found his way to the quarters of the men who had beaten off the attack of Minghal's regiment the night before. He felt some curiosity to see this warlike Pathan, named Asadullah, whose arrival had so soon been followed by a broil. When he reached the serai, he learnt that the chief had not yet returned from the palace; and knowing that Minghal had also gone thither to put his side of the story before the king, Ahmed guessed that the poor old monarch would have an uncomfortable morning.

He spent the rest of the forenoon in wandering about the city, picking up what news he could. Then he returned to his own serai for his midday meal and a sleep; he foresaw that he might have little opportunity for rest during the night. On awaking, he went out to the bazar and bought a stout hook, like those by which carcases are hung in butchers' shops. As he left the bazar, he overtook Minghal Khan's khansaman, who was returning with a load of provisions he had bought for his master's supper. Ahmed had wished more than once for an opportunity of conversing with the khansaman, and the present moment seemed favourable.

"Salaam, worthy khansaman," he said, stepping alongside the old man.

"Salaam, but I know thee not, stranger, and I am in haste," was the reply.

"Far be it from me to hinder one so venerable in years and so exalted in position, yet since thy worthy master has deigned to say that he will let his eye rest on my poor wares to-morrow, I would fain say a respectful word to the ruler of his household. It is a proud thing to serve one so high in the king's favour, and I warrant thou findest his service more to thy taste than that of him thou wast wont to serve—the accursed Feringhi."

The khansaman looked at him sharply.

"What knowest thou—a banijara from the hills, if my eyes see aright—of whom I served?" he said.

"Thy excellent darwan is a friend of mine," replied Ahmed, "and he has told me one or two things. How thy heart must have rejoiced when thy old master and all his family met their fate! Didst thou have a hand in it?"

"Would that I had!" said the khansaman, with fervour. "Would that all the dogs of Feringhis were even as that dog of a sahib under whose yoke I groaned!"

"'Tis beyond doubt that all his family were slain? Had he many sons?"

"None, save the child that now learns the vile learning of the Feringhis far over sea."

"That is pity. Maybe he had daughters?"

"One pale-faced thing, of no account."

"Without doubt she is dead also. Though indeed it is said that some of the Feringhis' women escaped, being preserved by some unworthy children of the Prophet. Even as I came hither I beheld such a pale-faced thing in the palki of a zamindar; not that I saw her, the palki being closed; but it was told me by the palki-wallahs. She had been seized out of the hands of her ayah and khitmutgar as she sought safety."

Ahmed watched the khansaman narrowly as he said this; but there was no change in the man's expression. It was that of complete indifference.

"I perceive we are drawing near to the great one's house," he continued. "Salaam aleikam!"

In a small lean-to off the stable of the serai, Ahmed fastened the hook he had bought to a short length of rope, and wound this about his body beneath his outer garment. Just after sunset he issued forth, carrying a lathi, and made his way across the Chandni Chauk to the narrow lane which ran past the back of Minghal's house. When he reached the spot at which he had descended from the colonnade, he unwound the rope, and raised it by means of the lathi until it rested on the top of the wall. Then he climbed up the rope, and having disengaged the hook, let himself down on the other side by means of the lathi; he laid his simple apparatus in a corner under the colonnade. While doing this he kept a wary eye on the servants' quarters that looked on to the garden, taking care to dodge the beam of light that issued from the kitchen, where, no doubt, preparations were being made for Minghal Khan's evening meal. Then he stole across the garden, and lurked for a little by the door.

Two hours later, Minghal Khan, having finished the more substantial portion of his meal, was reclining on cushions in his dining-room, eating sweetmeats and sipping sherbets with his guest, the Mirza Akbar Sultan. Both were in good spirits. The sweetmeats were a portion of some score hundredweight which the Kotwal had recently bought for the delectation of the soldiers, and which the king himself had inspected and deigned to taste. And a day or two before Akbar Sultan himself had summoned all the wealthy bankers of the city, at the instigation of the queen, and by means in which he was an adept, had extorted from them 8,000 rupees, a thousand of which he had immediately appropriated—was he not a prince?—handing five hundred, with princely generosity, to his good friend Minghal Khan.

"Truly thou art much in my debt," said the prince; "not more for rupees than for my support in that matter of the old rogue."

"I am thy unworthy servant, illustrious one," returned the other, "and all I have is thine. And how can I repay thee better than by helping thee to somewhat of the old rogue's booty?"

"Art thou sure he has this booty?"

"My head upon it, illustrious one. For what purpose has he sought refuge in this city? Only that his booty may not fall into the hand of the Feringhis, for assuredly he has no mind to fight them. Wah! thou camest to the palace at a fortunate hour,—fortunate for thee and me. That old rogue Asadullah forestalled me there, and the king had waxed hot against me, listening to his tale. He had that moment sent for me when I arrived. And though when I put the matter before him his anger was somewhat appeased, the issue would not have been so pleasing hadst thou not come to lend me the aid of thy persuasive voice. Wah! Did not the old rogue fume when the king turned to him and bade him cause no more trouble! Didst thou mark his flaming eye? Didst thou hear him mutter words of rage as he turned his back on the Pillar of State and strode from the presence? Wah! the king will favour him no more; never was his dignity so scantly regarded."

"But this booty of which thou speakest—how is one to obtain it? I have bled the shroffs; there will be a great wailing among them, and even I dare not do more for a while, lest the king, who is unstable as water, should again visit me with his displeasure."

"Listen, illustrious one; I know of a way. Asadullah has not yet proved himself. He has yet to go out and fight the Feringhis. Now, as thou knowest, I am a partaker in all Bakht Khan's counsels. We do little against the Feringhis at present, but to-morrow is Bakr-Id, and what more fitting than that we should mark the great day with a terrible onslaught against the infidels? Asadullah must then go forth to fight; Bakht Khan shall order it; and while he is absent with his band, what easier than to visit the serai where he lodges, and take the treasure that he conceals there?"

"But he will leave men to guard it."

"A handful only, and what will they avail against thy faithful ones? And, moreover, may it not come to pass that Asadullah will be slain in the fight? Then he will return not, and there will be none to say us nay. And if, perchance, he returns, can he gainsay what we have done for the holy cause? Here are thousands of faithful ones perishing for lack of their just pay; is it not justice that ill-got treasures should be taken from the few and divided among the many?"

"That is justice," said the prince. "It would be a good thing for the great number of the faithful that Asadullah should go forth to fight and not return. But how can we be sure that Bakht Khan will send him forth and set him in the forefront of the battle?"

"He will do so at thy persuasion, prince. As for me, it were best I held my peace, for the noise of this quarrel between the old rogue and me has gone abroad, and if I were to propose this thing Bakht Khan might suspect me of a desire to serve my own ends more than the interests of the state. But with thee it is otherwise, and Bakht Khan will assuredly pay heed to thee."

At this moment Bakht Khan was announced. After greetings, the prince cunningly led the conversation to the desired point. He suggested that this new-comer was not a fighting-man at all.

"He is a braggart," he said. "Lo, the father killed a tomtit, and the son, forsooth, is called a mighty archer! They talk much of this Asadullah's might in war, but what has he done?"

"I know a fighting-man when I see one, prince," said the sturdy general, "and if ever there was a fighting-man that so proved himself to me at the first look, this Pathan is the man."

"Bah!" sneered the prince. "A dog is a lion in his own lane. Dost thou judge of sweetmeat by the loftiness of the shop where it is bought?"

"Does the cat by the fire know the worth of a hunting-dog?" retorted Bakht Khan, bridling. "I am a fighter, and I know the marks of a fighter."

"Shoes are proved on the feet, not on the last," said the prince. "Is it not easy to prove the truth? Asadullah has not yet done battle with the English. Let him go forth and show himself a man of war. As for me, verily I believe that when the time comes he will be found wanting. Did not the fox say he would rather suffer a hundred hungers than behold one dog's face?"

The commander-in-chief fell into the trap. He vowed that Asadullah should indeed go forth and fight, and he was ready to wager that the Pathan would acquit himself well. A great sortie was planned for the following night—the night of Bakr-Id, the first of August—the day on which Abraham's sacrifice of Ishmael was commemorated by the slaying of a bull, a great day among good Mohammedans. Asadullah should be commanded to lead an attack on one part of the British lines, and by his conduct then should the dispute be decided. The three men sat long discussing the details of the proposed operations. It was late before the party broke up, and when the visitors had gone, and Minghal had retired to bed, the khansaman came in sleepily to clear away the remnants of their refreshments and put out the lamp. He carried the tray into the other room, listened, as if to make sure that all the household was in repose, then slid the panel of the almirah and disappeared in the hole in the wall, carrying his tray with him.

A moment later, a figure crept out from beneath a divan against the wall of the dining-room. He crossed the landing to the opposite room, went to the almirah, and slid back the panel. But then he was baulked—the wall appeared solid. There was no lock, no handle by which the door in it could be opened. Ahmed felt up and down, from right to left, and was almost in despair, when the wall opened slowly, as of itself. He started back, thinking the khansaman was returning; but finding that all was silent he approached again. Unknowing, he had pressed a little wooden button cunningly let into the stone, and released the spring that held the slab in place. He crept through, and took the precaution of pushing the stone back, then began to descend the steps of the narrow spiral staircase on which he found himself. He counted the steps—they were thirty; and then he came to a low passage, as narrow as the staircase, through which only one person could pass at a time. It was so low that he knocked his head against its roof in the darkness. But some few paces in front of him he saw a thin line of light across the floor. He stealthily approached; there was a door. He heard voices, but could not distinguish words. Was the door fastened? He pushed it gently—it yielded.

"If I could but be sure she was safe!" he heard a low voice say.

"Without doubt she is safe, sahib," was the reply. The voice was the khansaman's. Ahmed thrilled. The khansaman was faithful after all. He had his old master here in hiding. Who would have suspected so unlikely a place? And he was trying to cheer the doctor's despondency as to the fate of his daughter. Clearly he had not told him what Ahmed had said of the capture of the English girl by a zamindar.

"You have no news of her?" said the first voice.

"None, sahib; but that is not strange. The missy sahib would fear to send a messenger, lest he should betray your presence. And it is harder now than it was for folk to go in and out of the city. This very day the order has gone forth that none shall enter or depart without a written word. A man—his name is Gordohan Dass, and he lives at Lattu—was going out at the Delhi gate this morning in a shigram, and the guard stopped him and searched his cart, and there they found cartridges and bullets. They were but for his own protection, he declared. Nevertheless they beat him, and took his cart and all that was in it, and sent him to the Kotwali. There is little hope of news until the sahibs come and take the city."

"Will that ever be? What are they doing? Will they never begin the assault?"

"In Allah's good time, sahib. They are waiting on the Ridge; none can move them. Why they wait so long who can tell? The people say in the city that they are but five hundred now; that the colonels eat grain like their horses; that three generals have killed themselves before their troops for shame. But it cannot be true, sahib, for else why do the sepoys always come back discomfited? No; Allah is great, and the sahibs will yet come and punish the evil-doers, and then all will be well."

"But it is so long! How long is it since you found me in the street, and brought me here?"

"Two moons and more, sahib."

"Two months! And we have heard nothing all that time of Mary. I must go, Kaluja. In this dress none would recognize me; I can pass as one of their own hakims. You must help me to escape from the city."

"Nay, sahib; it is not safe. And besides, you are too weak—you would fall in the street."

"No, I am strong enough now. See, I can walk quite well."

There was a brief silence; then Ahmed heard a groan.

"Did I not say so, sahib? It would be folly; it would kill you. You must be patient."

"I could be patient if I were certain of Mary's safety. Did not your messenger return? Are you sure he has not returned?"

"I have neither seen nor heard of him, sahib."

"It is this anxiety that is sapping my strength. My wounds were healed long ago. Is there no one in this great city you can trust to go and come again?"

And then Ahmed pushed the door wide open, and entered the room.