On the Face of the Waters

BOOK IV
CHAPTER VI

VOX HUMANA.

The five days following on the 2d of August were a time of festivity for the Camp, a time of funerals for the City. There was a break in the rains, and on the Ridge the sunshine fell in floods upon the fresh green grass, and the air, bright and cool, set men's minds toward making the best of Nature's kindness; for she had been kind, indeed, to the faithful little colony, and few even of the seniors could remember a season so favorable in every way. And so the messes talked of games, of races; and men, fresh from seeing their fellows killed by balls on one side of the Ridge, joined those who, on the other side, were crying "Well bowled!" as wickets went down before other balls.

But in the city the unswept alleys fermented and festered in the vapors and odors which rose from the great mass of humanity pent within the rose-red walls. For the gates had been closed strictly save for those with permits to come and go. This was Bukht Khân's policy. Delhi was to stand or fall as one man. There was to be no sneaking away while yet there was time. So hundreds of sepoys protesting illness, hunger, urgent private affairs—every possible excuse for getting leave—were told that if they would not fight they could sulk. Starve they might, stay they should. The other Commanders-in-Chief, it is true, spent money in bribing mercenaries for one week's more fighting; but Bukht Khân only smiled sardonically. He had tried bugles and fifes, he had tried the drum-ecclesiastic; he was now trying his last stop. The vox humana of self-preservation.

In the city itself, however, the preservation of life took for the present another form, and never within the memory of man had there been such a pounding of pestles and mortars over leaf-poultices. The sound of it rose up at dawn and eve like the sound of the querns, mingling with the vox humana of grief as the eastern and southern gates were set wide to let the dead pass out, and allow the stores for the living to pass in.

It formed a background to the gossip at the wells where the women met to draw water.

"Faiz-Ahmed found freedom at dawn," said one between her yawns. "He was long in the throes. The bibis made a great wailing, so I could not even sleep since then. There are no sons, see you, and no money now the old man's annuity is gone."

"Loh, sister!" retorted another, "thou speakest as if death were a morsel of news to let dissolve on the tongue. There be plenty such soppets in Delhi, and if I know aught of wounds there will be another at nightfall. My mistress wastes time in the pounding of simples, and I waste time in waiting for them till my turn comes at the shop; for if it be not gangrened, I have no eyes." The speaker jerked her pot to her shoulder deftly and passed down the alley.

"Juntu is wise in such matters," said a worn-looking woman with sad eyes; "I must get her to glance at my man's cut. 'Tis right to my mind—he will put naught but water to it, after some foreign fashion—but who can tell these times?"

"Save that none pass their day, sister. Death will come of the Great Sickness, or the wound, as it chooses," put in a half-starved soul who had to carry a baby besides her pot. "The cholera rages in our alley. 'Tis the smell. None sweep the streets or flush the gutters now."

"Ari, Fukra!" cried a fierce virago, "thou art a traitor at heart! She bewails the pig-eating infidels who gave her man five rupees a month to bring water to the drains. Ai teri! If they saved one life from good cholera, have they not reft a hundred in exchange from widows and orphans? Oo-ai-ie-ee!"

Her howling wail, like a jackal's, was caught up whimperingly by the others; and so they passed on with their water pots, to spread through the city the tale of Faiz-Ahmed's freedom, Juntu's suspicions of gangrene, and Kartina the butcher's big wife's retort. And, in the evening, folk gathered at the gates, and talked over it all again as the funerals passed out; old Faiz-Ahmed, in his new gold shoes, looking better as a corpse, tied up in tinsel, than as a martyr, so the spectators agreed. Whereat his family had their glow of pride also.

Then, when the show was over, the crowd dispersed to pay visits of condolence, and raise the wailing vox humana in every alley.

Greatly to Jim Douglas' relief, for there was another voice difficult to keep quiet when the cool evenings came, and all Kate's replies in Hindustani would not beguile Sonny's tongue from English. He was the quaintest mother's darling now, in a little tinsel cap fringed with brown silk tassels hiding that dreadful gangway, anklets, and bracelets on his bare corn-colored limbs, the ruddy color showing through the dye on his cheeks, his palms all henna-stained, his eyes blackened with kohl, and a variety of little tinsel and brocaded cootees ending far above his dimpled knees. There were little muslin and net ones too, cunningly streaked with silver and gold, for Tara was reckless over the boy. She insisted, too, on a great black smudge on his forehead to keep away the evil eye; and Soma, coming now with the greatest regularity, brought odd little coral and grass necklets such as Rajpoot bairns ought to wear; while Tiddu, the child's great favorite, had a new toy every day for the little Huzoor. Paper whirligigs, cotton-wool bears on a stick, mud parrots, and such like, whereat Sonny would lisp, "Thâ bath, Tiddu." Though sometimes he would go over to Kate and ask appealingly, "Miffis Erlton! What has a-come of my polly?"

Then she, startled into realities by the words, would catch him up in her arms, and look around as if for protection to Jim Douglas, who, having overdone himself in the struggle with Tiddu, had felt it wiser to defer further action for a day or two. The more so because Tiddu had promised to help him to the uttermost if he would only be reasonable and leave times and seasons to one who had ten times the choice that he had.

So he would smile back at Kate and say, "It's all right, Mrs. Erlton. At least as right as it can be. The lot of them are devoted to the child."

Yet in his heart he knew that there was danger in so many confederates. He felt that this incredibly peaceful home on the housetop could not last. Here he was looking at a woman who was not his wife, a child who was not his child, and feeling vaguely that they were as much a part of his life as if they were. As if, had they been so, he would have been quite contented. More contented than he had been on that other roof. He was, even now, more contented than he had been there. As he sat, his head on his hand, watching the pretty picture which Kate, in Zora's jewels, made with the be-tinseled, be-scented, bedecked child, he thought of his relief when years before he had looked at a still little morsel lying in Zora's veil. Had it been brutal of him? Would that dead baby have grown into a Sonny? Or was it because Sonny's skin was really white beneath the stain that he thought of him as something to be proud of possessing; of a boy who would go to school and be fagged and flogged and inherit familiar virtues and vices instead of strange ones?

"What are you thinking of, Mr. Greyman? Do you want anything?" came Kate's kind voice.

"Nothing," he replied in the half-bantering tone he so often used toward her; "I have more than my fair share of things already, surely! I was only meditating on the word 'Om'—the final mystery of all things."

So, in a way, he was. On the mystery of fatherhood and motherhood, which had nothing to do with that pure idyl of romantic passion on the terraced roof at Lucknow, yet which seemed to touch him here, where there was not even love. Yet it was a better thing. The passion of protection, of absolute self-forgetfulness, seeking no reward, which the sight of those two raised in him, was a better thing than that absorption in another self. The thought made him cross over to where Kate sat with the child in her lap, and say gravely:

"The crèche is more interesting than the convalescent home, at least to me, Mrs. Erlton! I shall be quite sorry when it ends."

"When it ends?" she echoed quickly. "There is nothing wrong, is there? Sonny has been so good, and that time when he was naughty the sweeper-woman seemed quite satisfied when Tara said he was speaking Pushtoo."

"But it cannot last for all that," he replied. "It is dangerous. I feel it is. This is the 5th, and I am nearly all right. I must get Tiddu to arrange for Sonny first. Then for you."

"And you?" she asked.

"I'll follow. It will be safer, and there is no fear for me. I can't understand why I've had no answer from your husband. The letter went two days ago, and I am convinced we ought."

The frown was back on his face, the restlessness in his brain; and both grew when in private talk with Tiddu the latter hinted at suspicions in the caravan which had made it necessary for him to be very cautious. The letter, therefore, had certainly been delayed, might never have reached. If no answer came by the morrow, he himself would take the opportunity of a portion of the caravan having a permit to pass out, and so insure the news reaching the Ridge; trusting to get into the city again without delay, though the gates were very strictly kept. Nevertheless, in his opinion, the Huzoor would be wiser with patience. There was no immediate danger in continuing as they were, and the end could not be long if it were true that the great Nikalseyn was with the Punjâb reinforcements. Since all the world knew that Nikalseyn was the prince of sahibs, having the gift, not only of being all things to all people, but of making all people be all things to him, which was more than the Baharupas could do.

In truth, the news that John Nicholson was coming to Delhi made even Jim Douglas hesitate at risking anything unnecessarily, so long as things went smoothly. As for the letter to Major Erlton, it was no doubt true that the number of spies sending information to the Ridge had made it difficult of late to send any, since the guards were on the alert.

It was, indeed, even for the Queen herself, who had a missive she was peculiarly anxious should not fall into strange hands.

"There is no fear, Ornament of Palaces," said Ahsan-Oolah urbanely; "I will stake my life on its reaching." He did not add that his chief reason for saying so was that a similar letter, written by the King, had been safely delivered by Rujjub Ali, the spy, whose house lay conveniently near the physician's own, and from whom both the latter and Elahi-Buksh heard authentic news from the Ridge. News which made them both pity the poor old pantaloon who, as they knew well, had been a mere puppet in stronger hands. And these two, laying their heads together, in one of those kaleidoscope combinations of intrigue which made Delhi politics a puzzle even at the time, advised the King to use the vox celeste as an antidote to the vox humana of the city, which was being so diligently fostered by the Queen and Bukht Khân. Let him say he was too old for this world, let him profess himself unable longer to cope with his coercers and claim to be allowed to resign and become a fakir! But the dream still lingered in the old man's brain. He loved the brocaded bags, he loved the new cushion of the Peacock throne; and though the cockatoo's crest was once more showing a yellow tinge through the green, the thought of jehâd lingered sanctimoniously. But other folk in the Palace were beginning to awake. Other people in Delhi besides Tiddu had heard that Nikalseyn was on his way from the Punjâb and not even the rose-red walls had been able to keep out his reputation. Folk talked of him in whispers. The soldiers, unable to retreat, unwilling to fight, swore loudly that they were betrayed; that there were too many spies in the city. Of that there could be no doubt. Were not letters found concealed in innocent looking cakes and such like? Had not one, vaguely suggesting that some cursed infidels were still concealed in the city, been brought in for reward by a Bunjârah who swore he had picked it up by chance? The tales grew by the telling in the Thunbi Bazaar, making Prince Abool-Bukr, who had returned to it incontinently after the disastrous failure of faith on the 2d, hiccough magnificently that, poor as he was, he would give ten golden mohurs to anyone who would set him on the track of a hell-doomed. Yea! folk might laugh, but he was good for ten still. Ay! and a rupee besides, to have the offer cried through the bazaar; so there would be an end to scoffers!

"What is't?" asked the languid loungers in the wooden balconies, as the drum came beating down the street.

"Only Abool offering ten mohurs for a Christian to kill," said one.

"And he swore he had not a rupee when I danced for him but yesterday," said another.

"He has to pay Newâsi, sister," yawned a third.

"Then let her dance for him—I do it no longer," retorted the grumbler.

So the crier and his drums passed down the scoffing bazaar. "He will find many at that price," quoth some, winking at their neighbors; for the Prince was a butt when in his cups.

Thus at earliest dawn next morning, the 7th of August, Tiddu gave a signal knock at the door of the roof, rousing Jim Douglas who, since the child's arrival, had taken to sleeping across it once more.

"There is danger in the air, Huzoor," he said briefly; "they cried a reward for the infidels in the bazaar yesterday. There is talk of some letter."

"The child must go—go at once," replied his hearer, alert in an instant; but Tiddu shook his head.

"Not till dark, Huzoor. The bullocks are to pass out with the moon, and he must pass out with them. In a sack, Huzoor. Say nothing till the last. Then, the Huzoor knows the cloth merchant's by the Delhi gate?"

Jim Douglas nodded.

"There is a court at the back. The bullocks are there, for we are taking cloth the Lâla wants to smuggle out. A length or two in each empty sack; for he hath been looted beyond limits. So he will have no eyes, not the caravan either, for secret work in dark corners. Bring the boy drugged as he came here, the Rajpootni will carry the bundle as a spinner, to the third door down the lane. 'Tis an empty yard; I will have the bullock there with the half-load of raw cotton. We have two or three more as foils to the empty bags. Come as a Bunjârah, then the Huzoor can see the last of the child, and see old Tiddu's loyalty."

The familiar whine came back to his voice; he could scarcely resist a thrust forward of his open hand. But dignity or no dignity, Jim Douglas knew that itching palm well, and said significantly:

"It will be worth a thousand rupees to you, Tiddu, if the child gets safe."

A look of offended virtue came over the smooth face. "This slave is not thinking of money. The child is as his own child."

"And the mem as your mother, remember," put in the other quickly.

Tiddu hesitated. "If his servant saves the baba, cannot the master save the lady?" he said with the effrontery of a child trying how far he might go; but Jim Douglas' revolver was out in a second, and Tiddu, with an air of injured innocence, went on without a pause:

"The mem will be safe enough, Huzoor, when the child is gone, if the Huzoor will himself remain day and night to answer for the screened, sick woman within. His slave will be back by dawn; and if he smells trouble, the mem must be moved in a dhoolie to another house, the Rajpootni must go home, and I will be mother-in-law. I can play the part, Huzoor."

He could indeed! If Kate were to be safe anywhere, it would be with this old scoundrel with his thousand-faces, his undoubted gift for influencing the eyes of men. Three days of passing from one place to another, with him in some new character, and their traces must be lost. A good plan certainly!

"And there is no danger to-day?" he asked finally. Tiddu paused again, and his luminous eyes sought the sahib's. "Who can say that, Huzoor, for a mem, in this city. But I think none. We can do no more, danger or not. And I will watch. And see, here is the dream-giver. The Rajpootni will know the dose for the child."

The dream-giver! All that day the little screw of paper Tiddu had taken from his waistbelt lay in a fold of Jim Douglas' high-twined pugri, and its contents seemed to make him dull. Not that it mattered, since there was literally nothing to be done before dusk; for it would be cruel to tell Kate and keep her on tenterhooks all day to no purpose. But after a while she noticed his dullness, and came over to where he sat, his head on his hand, in his favorite attitude.

"I believe you are going to have fever and ague again," she said solicitously; "do take some aconite; if we could only get some quinine, that would end the tiresome thing at once."

He took some to please her, and because her suggestion gave him a reasonable excuse for being slack; but as he lounged about lazily, watching her playing with the boy, seeing her put him to sleep as the heat of the day came on, noting the cheerful content with which she adapted herself to a simplicity of life unknown to her three months before, the wonder of the circumstances which had led to it faded in the regret that it should be coming to an end. It had been three months of incredible peace and good-will; and to-day the peace and goodwill seemed to strike him all the more keenly because he knew that in an hour or so at most he must disturb it. It seemed hard.

But something else began the task for him. About sunset a sudden flash dazzled his eyes, and ere he grasped its vividness the walls were rocking silently, and a second after a roar as of a thousand thunder-claps deafened his ears. Kate had Sonny in her arms ere he could reach her, thrusting her away from the high parapet wall, which, in one already cracked corner, looked as if it must come down; which did indeed crumble outward, leaving a jagged gap halfway down its height, the debris falling with a rattle on the roof of the next house.

But ere the noise ended the vibration had passed, leaving him with relief on his face looking at a great mushroom of smoke and steam which had shot up into the sky.

"It's the powder factory!" he exclaimed, using Hindustani for Tara's benefit as well, since she had rushed in from the outer court at the first hint of danger to cling round his feet. "It is all over now, but it's lucky we were no nearer."

As he spoke he was wondering if this would make any difference in Tiddu's plans for the night, since the powder factory had stood equa-distant between them and the Delhi gate. He wondered also what had caused the explosion. Not a shell certainly. The factory had purposely been placed at the furthest point from the Ridge. However, there was a fine supply of powder gone, and, he hoped, a few mutineers. But Kate's mind had reverted to that other explosion which had been the prologue to the three months of peace and quiet. Was this one to be the epilogue? A vague dread, a sudden premonition made her ask quickly:

"Can it mean anything serious? Can anything be the matter, Mr. Greyman? Is anything wrong?"

It was a trifle early, he thought. She might have had another half hour or so. But this was a good beginning, or rather a fitting end.

"And you have known this all day?" she said reproachfully when he told her the truth. "How unkind of you not to tell me!"

"Unkind!" he echoed. "What possible good——"

"I should have known it was the last day—I—I should have made the—the most of it."

He felt glad of his own impatience of the sentimentality as he turned away, for in truth the look on her face hit him hard. It sent him to pace up and down the outer roof resting till the time for action came. Then he had a whispered consultation with Tara regarding the dose of raw opium safe for a child of Sonny's years.

"Are you sure that is not too much?" he asked anxiously.

Tara looked at the little black pellet she was rolling gravely. "It is large, Huzoor, but it is for life or death; and if it was the Huzoor's own son I would give no less."

Once more the remembrance of the still little morsel in Zora's tinsel veil brought an odd compunction; the very possibility of this strange child's death roused greater pain than that certainty had done. He felt unnerved at the responsibility; but Kate, looking up as he rejoined her, held out her hand without a tremor.

"Give it me, please," she said, and her voice was steady also; "he will take it best from me. I have some sugar here."

The child, drowsy already with the near approach of bedtime, was in her lap, and rested its head on her breast, as with her arms still round him her hands disguised the drug.

"It is a very large dose," she said dully. "I knew it must be; that's why I wanted to give it—myself. Sonny! Open your mouth, darling—it's sweet—there—swallow it quick—that's a good Sonnikins."

"You are very brave," he said with a catch in his voice.

She glanced up at him for a second with a sort of scorn in her eyes. "I knew he would take it from me," she replied, and then, shifting the child to an easier position, began to sing in a half voice:

"There is a happy land——"

"Far—farze—away," echoed Sonny contentedly. It was his usual lullaby, chosen because it resembled a native air, beloved of ayahs.

And as she sang and Sonny's eyelids drooped the man watched them both with a tender awe in his heart; and the other woman, crouching in the corner, watched all three with hungry, passionate eyes. Here, in this group of man, woman, and child, without a personal claim on each other, was something new, half incomprehensible, wholly sweet.

"He is asleep now," said Kate after a time. "You had better take him."

He stooped to obey, and she stooped also to leave a long, lingering kiss on the boy's soft cheek. It sent a thrill through the man as he recognized that in giving him the child she had given him more than kisses.

The feeling that it was so made him linger a few minutes afterward at the door with a new sense of his responsibilities toward her to say:

"I wish I had not to leave you alone."

"You will be back directly, and I shall be all right," she said, pausing in her closing of the door, for Tara had already passed down the stair with her bundle.

"Shall I lock it outside?" he began. Tara and he had been used to do so in those first days when they left her.

She laid her hand lightly on his arm. "Don't," she said, "don't get anxious about me again. What can happen in half an hour?"

He heard her slip the catch on the staple, however, before he ran downstairs. He was to take a different road to the Delhi gate from the quiet, more devious alleys which Tara would choose in her character of poor spinner carrying her raw stuff home. She was to await his arrival, to deposit the bundle somewhere close to the third door in the back lane by the cloth merchant's shop, leaving it to him to take inside, as if he were one of the caravan; this plan insuring two things—immunity from notice in the streets, and also in the yard. But, as Tara would be longer than he by a few minutes in reaching the tryst, he purposely went through a bit of the Thunbi Bazaar to hear what he could of the explosion. He was surprised—a trifle alarmed—at the excitement. Crowds were gathered round many of the balconies, talking of spies, swearing that half the court was in league with the Ridge, and that, after all, Abool-Bukr might not have a wild-goose chase.

"There will be naught but slops and slaps for him in my information, I'll swear," said one with a laugh. "I'll back old Mother Sobrai to beat off a dozen princes."

"And blows and bludgeons in mine," chuckled another. "I chose the house of Bahâdur, the single-stick player."

And as, having no more time to lose, he cut across gateward, he saw down an alley a mob surging round Ahsan-Oolah, the physician's, house, and heard a passerby say, "They have the traitor safe." It made him vaguely uneasy, since he knew that when once the talk turns on hidden things, people, not to be behindhand in gossip, rake up every trivial doubt and wonder.

Still there was a file of bullocks waiting by the cloth merchant's as arranged. And as he passed into the lane a dim figure, scarce seen in the dark, slipped out of the further end. And there was the bundle. He caught it up as if it belonged to him, and after knocking gently at the third door, pushed it open, knowing that he must show no hesitation. He found himself in a sort of outhouse or covered entrance, pitch dark save for a faintly lighter square showing an outlet, doubtless into the yard beyond. He moved toward it, and stumbled over something unmistakably upon the floor. A man! He dropped the bundle promptly to be ready in case the sleeper should be a stranger. But there was no movement, and he kneeled down to feel if it was Tiddu. A Bunjârah I—that was unmistakable at the first touch—but the limpness was unmistakable too. The man was dead—still warm, but dead! By all that was unlucky!—not Tiddu surely! With the flint and steel in his waist-cloth, he lit a tuft of cotton from the bundle as a torch.

It was Jhungi!—Jhungi, with a knife in his heart!

"Huzoor!" came the familiar creak, as Tiddu, attracted by the sudden light, stole in from the yard beyond. "Quick! there is no time to lose. Give me the bundle and go back."

"Go back!" echoed Jim Douglas amazed.

"Huzoor! take off the Bunjârah's dress. I have a green turban and shawl here. The Huzoor must go back to the mem at once. There is treachery."

Jim Douglas swore under his breath as he obeyed.

"I know not what, but the mem must not stay there. I heard him boasting before, and just now I caught him prying."

"Who, Jhungi?"

Even at such a moment Tiddu demurred.

"The Huzoor mistakes. It is the miscreant Bhungi—Jhungi is virtuous——"

"You killed him then?" interrupted the hearer, putting the last touch to his disguise.

"What else could I do, Huzoor? I had only my knife. And it is not as if it were—Jhungi——"

But Jim Douglas was already out of the door, running through the dark, deserted lanes while he dared, since he must walk through the bazaar. And as he ran he told himself that he was a fool to be so anxious. What could go wrong in half an hour?

What indeed!

As he stood five minutes after, staring into the dark emptiness of the roof, he asked himself again and again what could have happened? There had been no answer to his knock; the door had been hasped on the outside, yet the first glance as he entered made him realize that the place was empty of life. And though he had lit the cresset, with a fierce fear at what it might reveal, he could find no trace, even of a struggle. Kate had disappeared! Had she gone out? Impossible. Had Tara heard of the danger, returned, and taken her elsewhere? Possible, but improbable. He passed rapidly down the stairs again. The story below the roof, being reserved for the owner's use on his occasional visits to Delhi, was empty; the occupants of the second floor, pious folk, had fled from the city a day or two before; and when he paused to inquire on the ground floor to know if there had been any disturbance he found the door padlocked outside—sure sign that everyone was out. Oh! why, he thought, had he not padlocked that other door upstairs? He passed out into the street, beginning to realize that his task was over just as he had ceased to gird at it. There was nothing unusual to be seen. The godly folk about were beginning to close their gates for the night, and some paused to listen with an outraged air to the thrummings and drummings from the Princess Farkhoonda's roof. And that was Abool Bukr's voice singing:

"Oh, mistress rare, divine!"

Then it could scarcely be he, and Kate might have found friends in that quarter, where so many learned folk deemed the slaughter of women unlawful. But there was no use in speculating. He must find Tara first. He paused, however, to inquire from the cobbler at the corner. "Disturbance?" echoed the man. Not much more than usual; the Prince, who had passed in half an hour agone, being perhaps a bit wilder after his wildgoose-chase. Had not the Agha-sahib heard? The wags of the bazaar had taken up the offer made by the Prince, and his servants had sworn they were glad to get him to the Princess', since they had been whacked out of half a dozen houses. He was safe now, however, since when he was of that humor Newâsi Begum never let him go till he was too drunk for mischief.

Then, thought Jim Douglas, it was possible that Jhungi might have given real information; still but one thing was certain—the roof was empty; the dream had vanished into thin air.

He did not know as he passed through the dim streets that their dream was over also, and that John Nicholson stood looking down from the Ridge on the shadowy mass of the town. He had posted in a hundred and twenty miles that day, arriving in time to hear the explosion of the magazine. The city's salute of welcome, as it were, to the man who was to take it.

He had been dining at the Headquarters mess, taciturn and grave, a wet blanket on the jollity, and the Moselle cup, and the fresh cut of cheese from the new Europe shop; and now, when others were calling cheery goodnights as they passed to their tents, he was off to wander alone round the walls, measuring them with his keen, kindly eyes. A giant of a man, biting his lips beneath his heavy brown beard, making his way over the rocks, sheltering in the shadow, doggedly, moodily, lost in thought. He was parceling out his world for conquest? settling already where to prick the bubble.

But, in a way, it was pricked already. For, as he prowled about the Palace walls, a miserable old man, minus even the solace of pulse-feeling and cooling draughts, was dictating a letter to Hâfzan, the woman scribe. A miserable letter, to be sent duly the next day to the Commanders-in-Chief, and forwarded by them to the volunteers of Delhi. A disjointed rambling effusion worthy of the shrunken mind and body which held but a rambling disjointed memory even of the advice given it.

"Have I not done all in my power to please the soldiery?" it ran. "But it is to be deplored that you have, notwithstanding, shown no concern for my life, no consideration for my old age. The care of my health was in the hands of Ahsan-Oolah, who kept himself constantly informed of the changes it underwent. Now there is none to care for me but God, while the changes in my health are such as may not be imagined; therefore the soldiers and officers ought to gratify me and release the physician, so that he may come whenever he thinks it necessary to examine my pulse. Furthermore, the property plundered from his house belonged to the King, therefore it should be traced and collected and conveyed to our presence. If you are not disposed to comply, let me be conveyed to the Kutb shrine and employ myself as a sweeper of the Mosque. And if even this be not acceded I will still relinquish every concern and jump up from my seat. Not having been killed by the English I will be killed by you; for I shall swallow a diamond and go to sleep. Moreover, in the plunder of the physician's house, a small box containing our seal was carried away. No paper, therefore, of a date subsequent to the 7th of August, 1857, bearing our seal, will be valid."

A miserable letter indeed. The dream of sovereignty had come to an end with that salute of welcome to John Nicholson.

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