Kate heard the door closed, heard the voices retreat downstairs, and then set herself to get back over the gap. It did not seem a difficult task. The slope on which she hung gave fair foothold, and by getting a good grip on the brickwork, and perhaps displacing a brick or two in the crack lower down, as a step, she ought to get up easily. It was lucky the crack was there, she thought. In one way, not in another, for, as in her effort she necessarily threw all her weight on the wall, another bit of it gave way, she fell backward, and so, half covered with bricks and mud, rolled to the roof below, which was luckily not more than eight or nine feet down. It was far enough, however, for the fall to have killed her; but, though she lay quite unconscious, she was not dead, only stunned, shaken, confused, unable absolutely to think. It was almost dawn, indeed, before she realized that her only chance of getting up again was in calling for help, and by that time the door of the roof above had been locked, and there was no one to hear her. The few square yards of roof on to which she had rolled belonged to one of those box-like buildings, half-turrets, half-summer houses, which natives build here, there, and everywhere at all sorts of elevations, until the view of a town from a topmost roof resembles nothing so much as the piles of luggage awaiting the tidal train at Victoria.

This particular square of roof belonged to a tiny outhouse, which stood on a long narrow roof belonging in its turn to an arcaded slip of summer-house standing on a square, set round by high parapet walls.

Quite a staircase of roofs. Her one had had a thatch set against the wall, but it had fallen in with the weight of bricks and mortar. Still she might be able to creep between it and the wall for shelter. And on the slip of roof below, Indian corn was drying, during this break in the rains. Rains which had filled a row of water-pots quite full.

Since she could not make those above her hear, she thought it might be as well to secure herself from absolute starvation, before broad daylight brought life to the wilderness of roofs around her. So she scrambled down a rough ladder of bamboo tied with string, and, after a brief look into the square below, came back with some parched grain she had found in a basket, and a pot of water. She would not starve for that day. By this time it was dawn, and she crept into her shelter, listening all the while for a sound from above; every now and again venturing on a call. But there was no answer, and by degrees it came to her that she must rely on herself only for safety. She was not likely to be disturbed that day where she was, unless people came to repair the thatch. And under cover of night she might surely creep from roof to roof down to some alley. What alley? True, her goal now lay behind her, but these roofs, set at every angle, might lead her far from it. And how was she to know her own stair, her own house, from the outside? She had pa.s.sed into it in darkness and never left it again. Then what sort of people lived in these houses through which she must creep like a thief? Murderers, perhaps. Still it was her only chance; and all that burning, blistering day, as she crouched between the thatch and the wall, she was bolstering up her courage for the effort. She could see the Ridge clearly from her hiding place. Ah! if she had only the wings of the doves--those purple pigeons which, circling from the great dome of the mosque, came to feast unchecked on the Indian corn. The people below, then, must be pious folk.

It was past midnight and the silence of sleep had settled over the city before she nerved herself to the chance and crept down among the corn. No difficulty in that; but to her surprise, a cresset was still burning in the arcaded veranda below, sending three bars of light across the square through which she must pa.s.s. It would be better to wait a while; but an hour slipped by and still the light gleamed into the silence. Perhaps it had been forgotten. The possibility made her creep down the brick ladder, prepared to creep up again if the silence proved deceptive. But what she saw made her pause, hesitating. It was a woman reading from a large book held in a book-rest. The Koran, of course. Kate recognized it at once, for just such another had been part of the necessary furniture of her roof. And what a beautiful face! Tender, refined, charming. Not the face of a murderess, surely?

Surely it might be trusted? Those three months behind the veil had made Kate realize the emotionality of the East; its instinctive sympathy with the dramatic element in life. She remembered her sudden impulse in regard to the knife and its effect on Tiddu; she felt a similar impulse toward confidence here. And then she knew that the doors might be locked below, and that her best chance might be to throw herself on the mercy of this woman.

The next moment she was standing full in the light close to the student, who started to her feet with a faint cry, gazing almost incredulously at the figure so like her own, save for the jewels gleaming among the white draperies.

"Bibi," she faltered.

"I am no bibi," interrupted Kate hurriedly in Hindustani. "I am a Christian--but a woman like yourself--a mother. For the sake of yours--or the sake of your sons, if you are a mother too--for the sake of what you love best--save me."

"A Christian! a mem!" In the pause of sheer astonishment the two women stood facing each other, looking into each other's eyes. Prince Abool-Bukr had been right when he said that Kate Erlton reminded him of the Princess Farkhoonda da Zamani. Standing so, they showed strangely alike indeed, not in feature, but in type; in the soul which looked out of the soft dark, and the clear gray eyes.

"Save you!" The faint echo was lost in a new sound, close at hand. A careless voice humming a song; a step coming up the dark stair.

"O mistress rare, divine!"

G.o.d and His Prophet! Abool himself! Newasi flung her hands up in sheer horror. Abool! and this Christian here! The next instant with a fierce "Keep still," she had thrust Kate into the deepest shadow and was out to bar the brick ladder with her tall white grace. She had no time for thought. One sentence beat on her brain--"for the sake of what you love best, save me!" Yea! for his sake this strange woman must not be seen--he must not, should not guess she was there!

"Stand back, kind one, and let me pa.s.s," came the gay voice carelessly. It made Kate shudder back into further shadow, for she knew now where she was; and but that she would have to pa.s.s those bars of light would have essayed escape to the roofs again.

But Newasi stood still as stone on the first step of the stairs.

"Pa.s.s!" she repeated clearly, coldly. "Art mad, Abool? that thou comest hither with no excuse of drunkenness and alone, at this hour of the night. For shame!"

Why, indeed, she asked herself wildly, had he come? He was not used to do so. Could he have heard? Had he come on purpose? There was a sound as if he retreated a step, and from the dark his voice came with a wonder in it.

"What ails thee, Newasi?"

"What ails me!" she echoed, "what I have lacked too long. Just anger at thy thoughtless ways. Go----"

"But I have that to tell thee of serious import that none but thou must hear. That which will please thee. That which needs thy kind wise eyes upon it."

"Then let them see it by daylight, not now. I will not, Abool. Stand back, or I will call for help."

The sound of retreat was louder this time, and a muttered curse came with it; but the voice had a trace of anxiety in it now--anxiety and anger.

"Thou dost not mean it, kind one; thou canst not! When have I done that which would make thee need help? Newasi! be not a fool. Remember it is I, Abool; Abool-Bukr, who has a devil in him at times!"

Did she not know it by this time? Was not that the reason why he must not find this Christian? Why she must refuse him hearing? Though it was true that he had a right to be trusted; in all those long years, when had he failed to treat her tenderly, respectfully? As she stood barring his way, where he had never before been denied entrance, she felt as if she herself could have killed that strange woman for being there, for coming between them.

"Listen, Abool!" she said, stretching out her hands to find his in the dark. "I mean naught, dear, that is unkind. How could it be so between me and thee? But 'tis not wise." She paused, catching her breath in a faint sob. He could not see her face, perhaps if he had, he would have been less relentless.

"Wherefore? Canst not trust thy nephew, fair aunt?" The sarcasm bit deep.

"Nephew! A truce, Abool, to this foolish tale," she began hotly, when he interrupted her.

"Of a surety, if the Princess Farkhoonda desires it! Yet would Mirza Abool-Bukr still like to know wherefore he is not received?"

His tone sent a thrill of terror through her, his use of the name he hated warned her that his temper was rising--the devil awakening.

"Canst not see, dear," she pleaded, trying to keep the hands he would have drawn from hers--"folk have evil minds."

He gave an ugly laugh. "Since when hast thou begun to think of thy good name, like other women, Newasi? But if it be so, if all my virtue--and G.o.d knows 'tis ill-got--is to go for naught, let it end."

She heard him, felt him turn, and a wild despair surged up in her.

Which was worst? To let him go in anger beyond the reach of her controlling hand mayhap--go to unknown evils--or chance this one?

Since--since at the worst death might be concealed. G.o.d and His Prophet! What a thought! No! she would plead again--she would stoop--she would keep him at any price.

"Listen!" she whispered pa.s.sionately, leaning toward him in the dark, "dost ask since when I have feared for my good name? Canst not guess?--Abool! what--what does a woman, as I am, fear--save herself--save her own love----"

There was an instant's silence, and then his reckless jeering laugh jarred loud.

"So it has come at last! and there is another woman for kisses. That is an end indeed! Did I not tell thee we should quarrel over it some day? Well, be it so, Princess! I will take my virtue elsewhere."

She stood as if turned to stone, listening to his retreating steps, listening to his nonchalant humming of the old refrain as he pa.s.sed through the courtyard into the alley. Then, without a word, but quivering with pa.s.sion, she turned to where Kate cowered, and dragged her by main force to the stairs where, a minute before; she had sacrificed everything for her. No! not for her, for him!

"Go," she said bitterly. "Go! and my curse go with you."

Kate fled before the anger she saw but did not understand. Yet as she flew down the steep stairs she paused involuntarily to listen to the sound--a sound which needed no interpreter as the liquid Persian had done--of a woman sobbing as if her heart would break.

She had no time, however, even for wonder, and the next instant she was out in the alley, turning to the right. For the knowledge that it was the Princess Farkhoonda who had helped her, gave the clew to her position. But the house, the stair? How could she know it? She must try them one after another; since she would know the landing, the door she had so often opened and shut. Still it was perilously near dawn ere she found what she was sure was the right one; but it was padlocked.

They must have gone; gone and left her alone!

For the first time, ghastly, unreasoning fear seized on her; she could have beaten at the door and screamed her claim to be let in. And even when, the rush of terror pa.s.sed, she sat stupidly on the step, not even wondering what to do next, till suddenly she remembered that she had keys in her pocket. That of the inner padlock, certainly; perhaps of the outer one, also, since Tara had given up using her duplicate altogether.

She had; and five minutes after, having satisfied herself that the roof remained as it was--that it was merely empty for a time--she tried to feel grateful. But the loneliness, the dimness, were too much for her fatigue, her excitement. So once more the sound which needs no interpreter rose on the warm soft night.

It was two days after this that Tiddu held a secret consultation with Soma and Tara. The Agha-sahib, he said, was getting desperate. He was losing his head, as the Huzoors did over women-folk, and he must be got out of the city. It was not as if he did any good by staying in it. The mem was either dead, or safely concealed. There was no alternative, unless, indeed, she had already been pa.s.sed out to the Ridge. There was talk of that sort among Hodson's spies, and he was going to utilize the fact and persuade the Huzoor to creep out to the camp and see. Soma could pa.s.s him out, and would not pa.s.s him in again; which was fortunate. Since folk in addition to protecting masters had to make money, when every other corn-carrier in the place was coining it by smuggling gold and silver out of the city for the rich merchants. Tara, with a sudden fierce exultation in her somber eyes, agreed. Let the Huzoor go back to his own life, she said; let him go to safety, and leave her free. As for the mem, the master had done enough for her. And Soma, sulky and lowering with the dull glow of opium in his brain--for the drug was his only solace now--swore that Tiddu was right. Delhi was no place for the master. And once out of it, the fighting would keep him: he knew him of old. As for the mem, he would not harm her, as Tara had once suggested he should. That dream was over. The Huzoors were the true masters; they had men who could lead men. Not Princes in Cashmere shawls who couldn't understand a word of what you said, and mere _soubadars_ c.o.c.ked up, but real _Colonels_ and _Generals_.

The result of this being that on the night of the 11th, between midnight and dawn, Jim Douglas, with that elation which came to him always at the prospect of action, prepared to slip out of the sally-port by the Magazine, disguised as a sepoy. This was to please Soma. To please Tiddu, however, he wore underneath this disguise the old staff uniform from the theatrical properties. It reminded him of Alice Gissing, making him whisper another "bravo" to the memory of the woman whom he had buried under the orange-trees in the crimson-netted shroud made of an officer's scarf.

But Tiddu's remark, that an English uniform would be the safest, once he was beyond the city, sent sadness flying, in its frank admission that the tide had turned.

Turned, indeed! The certainty came with a great throb of fierce joy as, half an hour afterward, slipping past the gardens of Ludlow Castle, he found himself in the thick of English bayonets, and felt grateful for the foresight of the old staff uniform. They were on their way to surprise and take the picket; not to defend but to attack.

The opportunity was too good to be lost. There was no hurry. He had arranged to remain three days on the Ridge--he might not have another opportunity of a free fair fight.

He had forgotten every woman in the world, everything save the welcome silence before him as he turned and stole through the trees also, sword in hand.

By all that was lucky and well-planned! the picket must be asleep! Not a sound save the faint crackle of stealthy feet almost lost in the insistent quiver of the cicalas. No! there was a challenge at last within a foot or two.

"Who--k.u.m--dar?"