The underground chamber in which Ahmed was confined was perfectly dark. The floor was damp; the air stuffy. He leant for a while against the wall, ruminating on this sudden check in his fortunes. That Minghal Khan had not killed him at once showed that he was reserved for a worse fate. And what had Minghal meant by the reference to Rahmut Khan? His words seemed to imply that he supposed father and son to have entered Delhi together, and to be engaged in some scheme against him. Ahmed was for a time at a loss to understand what had given rise to this belief. Was Minghal unaware that Rahmut was a prisoner of the English? But then he remembered the conversation he had overheard in the room above. This "old rogue," this Asadullah, of whom the officers had spoken—could it be that he was Rahmut Khan? He was a Pathan—so much all Delhi knew; was it possible that the old chief had been released, or had escaped from prison, and had come into the city to wreak vengeance on the sahibs? This was a course he was very likely to follow: yet Ahmed hoped that it was not so; he did not like to think of his adoptive father and himself being on opposite sides.

Then he fell a-wondering how long he was to remain thus mewed up. And remembering the talk of a great onslaught to be made on the British lines on the morrow, he was dismayed. If Minghal Khan went out to fight he might remain absent for a whole day or more; he might, indeed, never come back; and then, unless a way could be found out of this dungeon, or some one came to release him, he might starve to death. The thought made his blood run cold, and in a sudden frenzy he began to strain at his bonds, trying to tear the staple from the wall and to snap the links of the chain. But from this he soon desisted; his struggles were useless; he only bruised himself. His exertions and the stuffiness of the room had made him hot; he was parched with thirst.

He sank down upon the floor, and squatted there, trying to calm himself. There was perfect silence. By and by he fell into a doze, and woke with a start in confusion of mind, from which he was roused by the clank of his chain as he moved. How long had he been asleep? Was it night or day? The profound stillness oppressed him; if he could but have heard some slight sound he would not have felt so utterly desolate. Schooling himself to patience, he tried to kill time by repeating aloud all the words of English he could remember, attempting to copy the accent of Hodson Sahib. He was surprised to find how many words came to his tongue with the effort. But speech was difficult to a dry throat. He lay down and slept again: maybe presently Minghal would relent so far as to bring him food.

Thus between sleeping and waking he passed the long hours—he knew not how many; and was vividly conscious of his discomforts, when at last he heard the light shuffling of feet in the corridor outside the room. Then a light shone through the thin crack at the bottom of the door; the key turned in the lock, and three figures entered. The first was Minghal Khan; then came the darwan with a lamp; the other was a stranger. And even Minghal wore a different look. His eyes were haggard; a huge bandage swathed his head; one arm was in a sling.

"Thou art yet alive, thou son of a dog," said Minghal. "It is well."

He bade the darwan hold the light nearer to Ahmed.

"Now hearken to me, and do my bidding," said Minghal again. "I have here a munshi, who will write the words thou sayest. Thou wilt send a message to Rahmut Khan, the rogue that calls himself thy father, and say to him that thou art in the hands of enemies. The bearer of thy letter is a man to be trusted, and if thy father will accompany him, he will bring him to the place where thou art, so that a plan of escape may be devised."

"And how shall my father know that this is a true letter from me, seeing that it will be written by a hand he knows not?" said Ahmed. It was well, he thought, that Minghal should still believe him to have come to the city with his father.

"Thou canst at least write thy name, or make some mark that he will know."

"I can do so much, it is true. And what if I do this thing?"

"I will set thee free before another sunrise."

"And dost thou think I do not see through thy wile, nor know the naughtiness of thy heart? Let thy munshi write; I will set no hand to it."

"Dog, dost thou deny me? Knowest thou not that I can slay thee where thou standest, or keep thee without bread to eat and water to drink until thou diest?"

"I know; but I have said."

"Thou fool! I will bring thee to a better mind; aye, or so serve thee that thy mind will utterly go from thee. Shall a whelp defy me? Go, darwan, bring bread and water."

The darwan set his lamp on the floor and went out. When he returned with the bread and water, Minghal bade him put them down just beyond Ahmed's reach with his chain at full length.

"See!" cried the furious man. "There is bread, but thou canst not eat it; water, but thou canst not drink it. Chew thy thoughts, for thou wilt have nought else to chew until thou dost bend thy stubborn neck and do even as I have commanded. I will come again in the morning; perchance thy rumination in the dark will give thee counsel."

And having struck Ahmed across the face, he went away with the two men, and locked the door after him.

For a time Ahmed was so much enraged at the indignity he had suffered that he could think of nothing else. But when calmness returned he reflected on what had happened. Minghal must be mad to suppose that he would lend himself to so transparent a trap. And yet could he endure? He strained towards the food, but stretching his full length on the floor he could not touch it; yes, the tips of his fingers just touched the jar of water. He scratched at it, hoping that it would turn and come a little nearer; but his movements had the opposite effect, and soon his longest finger could not even feel the vessel.

He drew back, and huddled on the damp stones. The torture in store terrified him; could he withstand it? His tongue was parched; he felt gnawing pains; his brow was damp with fear. He closed his eyes, perhaps death would come in sleep. But now he could not even sleep; there seemed to be a hammering at his brow; wild thoughts chased one another through his brain. He got up and walked about at the utmost tether of his chain until the clank of the metal became itself a torture. Then he moved his arms in the motions of drill; he felt that only by action could he ward off madness.

So the hours dragged on. Surely the sun had now risen. Why had not Minghal returned? When he did return Ahmed would beg as a boon to be slain at once. He listened for footsteps. There was none. He walked about again; then stopped, fancying he heard another sound besides the clanking of the chain. But the stillness was as of the grave. He lay down, covering his head with his arms; if he could but sleep! And he was at last falling into the slumber of exhaustion when a slight sound struck upon his ear. Or was it a dream sound? Every sense was strung to the highest tension. He strained his ears; he must have been mistaken. But no; that was a sound, a creak. Minghal was returning. He got up, and his chain clanked. He stood motionless. Why did not the door open? There was another creak, and another interval of silence; and then he felt a sudden slight gust of fresher air strike his cheek; surely the door was open. Next moment there was a click, a spark, and in the sudden flash he thought he saw a figure in the room. Another spark, followed by a red glow, that grew brighter, and then a low bluish flame. It was the kindling of a lamp, and behind it he saw Kaluja Dass.

"Hush!" said the khansaman in a whisper. "Here is food and drink."

Ahmed seized upon the jar of water and drank his fill, then upon the bread covered with honey, and ate ravenously.

"I cannot set you free," said the khansaman, still in a whisper. "The tyrant has sworn he will dismiss us all if you escape, and I have to think of the master. I took the vile one's keys from his raiment as he slept. I must go back lest he wakes. I will come again. The sahib knows: we will try to think of some plan."

"What is doing?" whispered Ahmed. "Why is Minghal swathed?"

"He fought and was wounded. And, moreover, he is shamed before the king. His men assailed the serai of Asadullah, and the king is wroth with him."

"This Asadullah—who is he?"

"A warrior that serves the king, with three hundred men."

"What manner of man?"

"An old man with white beard, of good stature and noble presence. He wears a red turban; he is from the hills."

"He is my father."

"Sayest thou? Then will I go to him and acquaint him with thy plight. Verily he will know how to deal with the evil man."

Ahmed was tempted to agree; but with second thoughts he saw that the khansaman must not do what he had said. Rahmut Khan was among the mutineers: he could not assist Ahmed without compromising them both. Only if Ahmed threw in his lot with the rebels would it be fair to ask the old chief to intervene in his behalf. And Ahmed was one of Lumsden's Guides; he had eaten the sahibs' salt; he was of the sahibs himself: the Guides were true to their allegiance.

"It may not be, good khansaman," he said. "Presently, thou wilt understand."

"Allah be with thee!" said the khansaman.

"And with thee, khansaman."

The servant took away the vessels in which he had brought the food, and went out with stealth as he had entered. There was left no trace of the meal. Ahmed laid himself down again; his body was comforted, the light of hope soothed his mind, and at last he slept.

Some hours later he was wakened by the entrance of Minghal. The same proposition was put to him: he rejected it with scorn. Minghal was amazed to find him still obdurate. The food was untouched on the floor. Would nothing quell the spirit of this youth? He tried to beat down his captive's resolution, and failing, went away in a rage, declaring that he would yet starve him into submission.

Ahmed found it easier to endure the slow-dragging hours of the long day. In the dead of night the khansaman again came to him with food. He said that the doctor sahib had bidden him release the prisoner, even at the risk of compromising his own safety. But Ahmed refused to allow it. He had been sent into Delhi to help the doctor, and could not consent to anything that would endanger him. His refusal gave the khansaman evident relief. Once more the servant offered to inform Asadullah of his son's plight, and Ahmed, in declining, thought it well to explain his reasons. The khansaman scoffed at them; he did not understand such scruples; and though he did not say so, he went away with the determination to seek out the old chief the next day when he went to market.

He left with Ahmed a file with which he might so far cut his fetters as to be able to break loose if occasion offered, and he advised him to feign exhaustion at Minghal Khan's next visit. After so many hours without food even the strongest must collapse, and if the captive were still found unaltered Minghal's suspicion would certainly be aroused.

Meanwhile Minghal had been occupied with his own concerns. He had no intention of paying the fine inflicted on him, and at a private interview with the king, with the assistance of Mirza Akbar Sultan and the eloquent testimony of his own wounds, he talked the old man over, and the sentence was remitted. When this reached the ears of Rahmut Khan, the old chief was furious, and resolved to take matters into his own hands. He had not only his old quarrel with Minghal to settle: there were the two fierce attacks made upon him during the short time he had been in Delhi; there was also the attempt to betray him to the enemy. It was not Rahmut Khan's way to instigate attacks which he was not himself prepared to carry through. His men were incensed against Minghal's regiment, and that Minghal feared reprisals was shown by the fact that he had now garrisoned his house with a score of men.

Rahmut planned an attack on the house after sunset with a hundred of his followers. Their approach was spied by the darwan before they actually reached the house. He promptly bolted the gates and ran to give the alarm. Minghal took advantage of the breathing space to beat a hasty retreat through the back entrance, and hurried to Bakht Khan with the news.

It was some time before Rahmut's men forced an entrance, so solid were the doors. They had scarcely broken in when the commander-in-chief arrived on the spot at the head of a considerable body of picked men. There was a stormy scene between him and Rahmut, who, however, could not but yield to superior force. He was more enraged than ever, especially because during the short time they had been in the house his men had gained little plunder, all the valuables having been sold to supply the wants of Minghal Khan. The old chief was led away under arrest, and carried straight to the palace. The king was in no mood to overlook this direct transgression. All day he had been harassed by reports of the ill-treatment of residents by the sepoys. It was intolerable, he cried, that his peaceable subjects should be harassed and threatened by soldiers who had come to the city with the avowed object of destroying the English. Still more intolerable was it that the soldiers should attack one another.

"I see clearly," said the wretched monarch, "that the English will take the city, and kill me."

"Be of good cheer, illustrious one," said one of his officers. "Do thou put thy hand on our heads, and without doubt we shall be victorious."

And then, to the number of a hundred and fifty, they filed past him, and as he placed his hand on the head of each he said, "Go thou with haste and win victory on the Ridge." And they begged him to lay a severe penalty on this Pathan stranger, Asadullah, who had come to trouble the city. Then up spoke Bakht Khan, ever blunt of address.

"Punish Asadullah," he said, "it is but right; but punish Minghal also. They are arrows of one quiver. The Arab horse gets whipped and the Tartar is fondled. I am weary of Minghal Khan."

But the covetous officials knew that Minghal was poor, whereas rumour ascribed to Asadullah the possession of great treasures of plunder. The treasury was empty. That very day a message came from Gwalior to the effect that the whole army there was willing to place itself at the king's service, and he petulantly made answer: "I say there is no money for their support. We have here in the city 60,000 men, but they have not been able to win one clod of dirt from the English." The opportunity of gaining something for the treasury was too good to be thrown away. At the instance of his sycophants the king demanded a heavy fine from Rahmut. The chief, curbing his wrath, begged until morning to get the money. Before morning dawned, he had his men saddled up, and the moment the gates were opened he dashed through the streets at the head of his force, rode out by the Ajmir gate, and fled away into the open country. Before the news reached the palace, before any one could think of pursuit, the old Pathan was out of sight.

Night being as day to Ahmed in his dungeon, he set to work at once with the file the khansaman had given him. The links of his chain were of soft iron, and with ready wit he thought of a way by which he might for a time disguise the fact that his fetters were loosed. He filed through one of the links, and then a portion of the next one, until he was able to pass this thinned portion through the gap he had made in the first. If, therefore, he should be suddenly disturbed, he could at once replace the links, and, by turning one of them round so that the portion yet unfiled was brought against the part that was cut, the chain might appear to be still unbroken.

As soon as he was free he made a tour around his dungeon, rather by way of distraction and to stretch his legs than with any idea of making a discovery that would further his escape.

The vault was pitch dark. He had seen it by the light of the oil-lamp during the visits of Minghal and the khansaman, but taken no particular note of it. He now went round it, feeling the walls with his hands. They were of rough-hewn stones; there was no variation except at the door. He shook that: it was locked fast. He went back to the staple and sat down; after a time, having nothing better to do, he started again, and examined the door by touch more carefully. There was no handle, not even a keyhole on the inside. Thinking he heard footsteps, he retreated so hastily that he narrowly escaped overturning the pitcher of water. It was a false alarm. Once more he went round the walls, this time in the opposite direction.

And now, as he drew his hand along the wall, he fancied that one of the slabs of stone protruded a little further into the room than the others. All the stones were rough and ill-fitting, but this protuberance awoke his curiosity. Had he detected a slight movement as he first pressed it? He pushed hard at it—upwards, downwards, sideways, but without result. Surely he had been mistaken. He would try again. This time he pushed gently, and thrilled all through when he felt an indubitable movement, though very slight. Now, instead of pushing, he pulled outward. The stone yielded. He pulled harder; it moved reluctantly, but it did move, and by and by he was able to get his fingers round the edge of the slab. Another pull, and it came a few inches from the wall, then stopped.

He was puzzled. He pushed at the stonework immediately around the slab. There was no result. He tried a few feet to the right—in vain; then to the left. Something seemed to give slightly. A harder push, and the slab moved inward, slowly revolving on a vertical axis until it stood perpendicular to the surface of the wall.

With beating heart he crawled through the opening, and found himself in a stone passage, so low that he had to stoop, so narrow that there was not an inch to spare on either side. In a dozen paces he reached the end—a dead stone wall. There must be an outlet, but where? He felt over the wall and discovered a protuberance similar to that in the room he had left. He pushed and pulled in the same way; the slab moved; a light shone through the crack between it and the wall. He peeped through. There was Craddock Sahib reading at his little table by the light of a lamp.

The doctor was amazed, delighted, perplexed, at once. Ahmed rapidly explained the discovery he had made, then hurried back through the passage, closed the slab opening into his cell, and returned. He learnt from the doctor of the recent attack on the house by Asadullah, and that the khansaman, in spite of his wishes to the contrary, had gone off that morning to find the old chief, and inform him of his son's plight. Ahmed seized on the attack as affording an explanation of his escape. Minghal would believe readily enough that the prisoner had been rescued by his father, even though the fact that the door was still locked should savour of mystery. Thus the khansaman would be in no danger of dismissal.

The question was: how was Ahmed to escape from the house and the city? There was no longer any safety in his disguise, even if the khansaman could procure a beard to replace that of which Minghal had stripped him. It was the khansaman himself who, when he returned, suggested a way. Sepoys' uniforms were easily to be got; he would obtain one at his next visit to the bazar; clad in that and provided with arms, Ahmed must march out with a mutinous regiment and take an opportunity of escaping from them. He would, it was true, run the risk of being shot himself as a rebel; but among risks there was little to choose. The khansaman would acquaint him with a favourable time for making the attempt.

Ahmed remained for several days in the doctor's company. They heard from the khansaman of Minghal's fury when he discovered the disappearance of his prisoner. As Ahmed had guessed, he imputed it to the agency of Rahmut Khan, and regarded the locked door merely as an additional proof of the malicious cunning of the old chief. At last the uniform and the arms were provided, and one morning very early, before the household was astir, Ahmed was cautiously let out of the house by the khansaman. A few hours later he joined himself unquestioned to a body of troops made up of many different components, ordered to reinforce the mutineers holding the suburb of Kishenganj. There was some delay as they marched past the Mosque. Some one had told the king that the sepoys, clamorous for pay, were about to attack him in his palace, and orders were sent through the city that not a soldier should move until the report had been investigated.

While the soldiers stood at ease near the Mosque, Ahmed noticed Fazl Hak moving leisurely among the onlookers, occasionally addressing a word or two to the sepoys he passed. As he came near, Ahmed accosted him.

"Salaam, worthy maulavi, what is the news?"

Fazl Hak stopped; he looked surprised, then took Ahmed a little apart.

"There is no news, sepoy," he said in a low tone, "later than this command of the king."

"Hast thou not heard of the fifteen elephants taken from the English yesterday?"

"Nay, I had not heard of that."

"Hai! that is strange. Nor that a fakir departed from the city yesterday to travel to Peshawar, and cut the throat of Jan Larrens?"

"Sayest thou?"

"Nor that a black-bearded banijara selling shawls was lately stripped of his beard and shown to be as smooth of cheek as I myself—a wretched spy of the Feringhis?"

"Hai! I know of such a banijara, and I could have said he would prove but a broken reed as a spy."

"And dost thou not know that our great Bakht Khan has driven a hundred mines beneath the Ridge, and when the moon is full the Feringhis will all be blown to little pieces?"

Fazl Hak threw a keen sidelong look at this informative sepoy.

"Though I would not counsel thee to write word of that on thy little scrolls to Hodson Sahib," added Ahmed, lowering his voice to a whisper.

The maulavi started; an angry flush suffused his cheeks.

"Thou misbegotten son of——!" he exclaimed; but Ahmed interrupted him.

"Let it be peace, good maulavi," he said. "There is little thou dost not know; thou knowest now that the Pathan trader was not such a sorry spy, since I am he. It is pardonable for a man to prove himself, to one of such honoured merit as thou."

"Thou sayest well," said the maulavi, somewhat mollified. "When the troubles are over, come to me; I will pay thee well."

"Nay, I have other service. But if thou hast aught now that thou wouldst send to Hodson Sahib, deliver it to me; I go to him."

Without hesitation Fazl Hak took from beneath his thumbnail a tiny scroll of paper, which he handed secretly to Ahmed, and then with a negligent salutation he walked slowly away.

Ahmed's conversation with the maulavi attracted little attention among the sepoys. And when, after a delay of two hours, the order came to march, he went with them out from the Ajmir gate, and into Kishenganj.

At dead of night he crept out very stealthily, stole along the tree-shaded road until he reached the Jumna canal, then stripped off his tell-tale red coat, and swam across. Hastening along the further bank for half-a-mile, he struck northward through the gardens on the outskirts of Sabzi Mandi, and just before dawn reached a picket of Irregular Native Cavalry. Half-an-hour later he was in Hodson's tent, relating his discovery of Craddock Sahib, and much more that Hodson regarded as of greater importance.