“Oh, Zeemit!” she cried, “by all that you hold dear--if you have sister, mother, father, brother, nay, more, if you have a child--I appeal to you, in their names, to save me!” “I will,” was the answer. “But you must go with this man; for to remain here is certain death. If your lover has escaped, and he may have done so, he will assuredly return. I will remain behind and wait, so that if he comes I can warn him and apprise him of your whereabouts. Hush! Jewan returns.” Flora was utterly bewildered. She could neither think nor act, only yield herself blindly to the counselling of this old woman. The man had driven into the compound in a buggy. He sprang to the ground. “Quick,” he cried, “there is no time to be lost.” “I have an old father, who lives on the other side of the nullah,” said Zeemit; “I must visit him before I go.” “But I cannot wait for you; even our own lives are in danger by remaining here,” observed Jewan angrily. “There is no occasion to wait,” was the answer. “When I have seen my father I will hurry after you. I am an old woman, and no one will molest me; I shall find means to reach Delhi almost as soon as you. Come, my baby, put on your things,” she added, addressing Flora, who followed the old woman into the bungalow. When Flora had secured a few relics and articles of value, and had arrayed herself in a shawl and hat, she returned to the verandah. “You will come,” she whispered to the old woman; “and save him if possible. Should I not see you in three days, and if this man insults me, I will die by my own hand.” “I will save him and you if he lives,” was the answer. “Go.” Then the poor girl, bewildered by the rapid course of events, and half-dazed by the danger that surrounded her, and scarcely able to realise the fact that a few yards off her mother was lying stark and white, mounted to the buggy, and sank down overpowered upon the cushions. Jewan sprang up beside her, and, covering her up with a dark horse-cloth, he lashed his horse into a gallop, and was soon speeding out of Meerut. As the buggy reached the great Mall, it was passed by a horse that was tearing along at a great pace. It carried a rider, an Englishman. His head was bare, his hair was streaming in the wind, his teeth were set, and in his hand he firmly held a revolver. He bent low, until his face almost touched the neck of his horse, for now and again shots were sent after him; but he seemed to bear a charmed life, and never slackened pace for an instant, and soon he and the buggy were far apart. The flying horseman was Walter Gordon. Breathless and begrimed, he rushed into the compound of the Meredith bungalow, just in time to see flames issuing from the windows. It had been fired by the incendiaries. He would have entered the burning building, but a hand firmly grasped his arm, and a voice whispered in his ear-- “Be silent as you value your life.” It was Zeemit Mehal.