"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. CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST Master and Servant Ahmed found himself in a small square chamber, dimly lit by an oil-lamp. The air was close, and pervaded by an odour new to him: the pungent odour that salutes one at the entrance of a chemist's shop. The room was naturally lofty, but its height was artificially diminished now by a large blanket spread from corner to corner. Against the further wall stood a charpoy, and on it lay a tall grey-bearded man clad in the customary garments of a respectable Mohammedan. A table was at his side, with a tray holding a dish and a phial or two. The khansaman was standing at the foot of the bed. At the entrance of Ahmed he uttered a cry, and seized a knife from the table. There was a silence, in the tenseness of which time seemed to be abolished. The khansaman stared with eyes that spoke his fear. Then Ahmed held up his hand and spoke: "Be at peace, good khansaman," he said; "I have news of the sahib's daughter." The man's overcharged feelings found relief in a sob, and the recumbent figure started up. "Is it true? You do not mock me?" he cried. "Who are you?" "I am Ahmed Khan, of Lumsden Sahib's Guides, and I am sent into this city by Hodson Sahib, to say that the hazur's daughter is safe at Karnal."