The evening seemed very long in coming, not only to the eager trooper, but to the two ladies, who could scarcely keep their eyes open after the fatigues of the day before. They sat side by side on a charpoy in the room in which Wazira Begum had first received them, with Maadat Ali cross-legged on a carpet opposite, pouring forth a flood of questions which still seemed inexhaustible. A brazier of glowing charcoal supplied warmth and a dim religious light, and Wazira Begum wandered restlessly in and out. The day had been hot, for the sun beat down with great force on the unshaded walls and courtyards of Sheikhgarh; but the evening was cold and even frosty. Suddenly through the chill air came the sound of a horn, and Maadat Ali leaped up as if he had been shot. “Some one comes!” he cried. “I will bring thee news, O my sister.” He rushed out and under the curtain, and was lost to sight. The women-servants came crowding into the passage, and listened to the confused sounds which reached them from the gateway. Presently Maadat Ali came rushing back. “O my sister,” he gasped forth, “it is our uncle, sorely wounded. He and his troop were attacked by the accursed one, the usurper.” “And our brother--Ashraf Ali?” shrieked Wazira Begum. “They said nothing of him, but they are bringing the Sheikh in a litter, and those that have returned with him are relieving the men on guard, that they may gather in the great hall and receive his commands. I must go back.” “Won’t you send the servants to light the hall with torches?” asked Lady Haigh of Wazira Begum, as the boy ran away; but she shook her head. “Nay, no woman must be present when the Sheikh gives his commands to the brotherhood. They will bring their own torches. We should not even be here; but I cannot go back into the zenana without knowing what has befallen my brother. It is forbidden, but I cannot.” The women were all gathered at the curtain now, peering through holes which long experience had shown them where to find, and Lady Haigh laid an encouraging hand on Wazira Begum’s shoulder. To her surprise, it was not shaken off. The girl was trembling with anxiety, and her breath came in sharp gasps. Outside the curtain Murtiza Khan stood rigid, partially concealed by the recess in which it hung. With admirable good-breeding, he feigned to be absolutely unconscious of the crowd of women who were pressing and whispering so close to him.