“I don’t know what would have happened to us if you hadn’t been there,” pursued Cecil, excitedly. “I thought it was all over, I could not move another step, and then we came round that corner, and you were there, and we were saved.” There was a hysterical catch in her voice, but she hurried on. “What would they have done to us, do you suppose? I can’t help thinking of that money-lender’s wife and children, don’t you remember? Their house was destroyed, and they were dragged out into the street, and trodden to death--trodden to death--by the crowd. And that was in this very province. They might have done the same to us--think of it!” and she broke into hard gasping sobs. “But you are not to think of it,” said Charlie, authoritatively, his professional instincts aroused. “You will make yourself really ill, perhaps bring on fever. What you are to do is to lie quietly here and rest, and Cousin Elma will sit with you and talk to you.” “But they are at the gate--they may break in at any moment,” and Cecil looked round with terrified eyes. “Oh, nonsense!” said Charlie. “Why, we have the Sepoys and Rossiter, and any number of men, to defend the place. Look at Cousin Elma; she isn’t a bit frightened, and I know that if she thought there was any real danger she would be seeing what she could do to help in the defence. Now, Miss Anstruther, lie down again and try to go to sleep, and I promise you that if I see any signs of the mob’s being likely to get in, I will come and carry you up to the roof. We can hold out there for any length of time. You can trust me, you know.” “Indeed I can,” said Cecil, putting her hand into his. “Then that is a bargain,” said Charlie, retaining the hand; “and now I must go and see whether I can give any help at the gate.” “Good-bye, then,” said Cecil. “No, not good-bye, _auf wiedersehen_.” “Yes, _au revoir_,” said Charlie, audaciously seizing the opportunity to kiss the hand he held, regardless of the glance of burning indignation which he received from Lady Haigh over Cecil’s head. It was at this extremely unpropitious moment that Azim Bey elected to return, fresh from the manipulations of Chanda Lal, and gorgeous in the best raiment of the young son of the Armenian major-domo. He stood transfixed for a moment at the door, astonishment making him dumb, then withdrew behind the curtain, and pounced upon Charlie as he came out. “How dare you, monsieur?” he cried, flinging himself upon him like a wild cat. “You shall not look at mademoiselle like that. She is my mademoiselle, she is not yours. I will not have you touch her hand, you----” And here followed a string of outrageous epithets in very choice Arabic, a language extremely rich in such words, and lending itself abundantly to purposes of abuse.