The embassy wound up the long path, entered the gateway, and returned, without Sher Singh, but with an elderly fakir, who was introduced as the Prince's private physician. With many apologies and compliments, he informed Gerrard that his master, cut to the heart by the Rajah's behaviour, had taken to his bed as soon as he reached home, and was too ill to be disturbed. He had turned his face to the wall, said the old man dramatically, and though he had laid the letters on his brow and eyes in token of gratitude, he had not even strength to read them at present. Would his beloved friend Jirad Sahib pardon his seeming discourtesy, and return to the capital, whither he would follow as soon as the life-giving influences of his sovereign's kindness had renewed his spirit? Gerrard expressed his sorrow at the Prince's illness, but offered to visit him and read the letters aloud, at the same time investing him with the _khilat_. But this was refused. Sher Singh's wounded spirit could not endure the sight of a stranger at present, it seemed, and he could only express his deep regret that for so unworthy an object Jirad Sahib should have interrupted his important labours, and entreat him to waste no more of his valuable time. There was not even a word said of lodging him and his escort in the fort for the night. Gerrard's anger rose. "I came to see Sher Singh, and here I stay till I have seen him," he said. "We will pitch here, below the gateway, and see which of us will tire first." [1] Grant, patent. [2] _Hathis_, elephants. CHAPTER XI. MURDER MOST FOUL.