"Don't you fear, Mrs. Campbell, Samptor will make them scuttle like sheep!" remarked one of the ladies, and Rayner had no difficulty in recognising Mrs. Samptor's sharp tones. "I say, whose ayah's that? Can't be Mrs. Goldring's--too tall! Is she yours, Mrs. Campbell?" "No, mine went to eat rice; besides, she's quite short in comparison to that one." "She's not the Meakin's either. I know their one. Yes, she is tall--she doesn't look the right muster for an ayah somehow. I say, what if she's a Mahomedan in disguise come to murder us all when our men are away!" Rayner had heard too much for his peace of mind. These were no safe quarters for him. He wheeled right about and began to walk hastily towards the town again. CHAPTER XXXV. Driven from the precincts of the English quarter by Mrs. Samptor's remarks, Mr. Rayner resolved to lurk about the jungly scrub till his train was due; but finding this retreat increasingly dreary in the gathering darkness, he felt possessed with a desire to see a little of the possible happenings in the crowded streets of the native town. "No danger of a respectable old amah like me being molested," he assured himself. Besides, he was again feeling very hungry, and decided that he must try to secure an evening meal. On emerging from the wood, he noticed with surprise that the darkening sky was becoming suffused by a reddish glow, and suddenly a tongue of flame shot up from the town. "They're firing something! Surely it's not the mosque? The Mahomedans will be beside themselves with fury. By Jove! I only hope it's Zynool's house--and him in it!" muttered Rayner with a chuckle. A wild chorus of shouts and shrieks was now borne on the still evening air, and more flames leapt up into the sky. "I declare I'm tempted to creep a little nearer and see the fun! Not a soul will heed an old woman in the scrimmage!" Rayner began to walk on steadily as fast as his unshod feet would carry him. When he reached the narrow streets of the old town, he found that all were literally packed with human beings. It was a weird though picturesque scene, the rich variegated colours of the Eastern robes and turbans making a seething mass, lit up by many waving torches, jostling and pressing on one another in a state of wild ferment. One of the Mahomedan processions had come in contact with a company of Hindus who, with much tom-toming and blowing of conchs, were trying to make their way to the river-side to perform the burning ceremonies of a dead dhobie woman, and were using the occasion to incite their rivals by every means in their power. Some conspirators had fired the mosque, which was not long in bursting into flame. The rage of the Mahomedans knew no bounds when they saw their holy place being ruthlessly destroyed by the devouring flames. The lurid light from the blaze was shed upon the combatants in their fierce conflict.