"Surely you are telling some idle tale of the bazaar," said Malcolm. "No, sahib. My brother is a grass-cutter in the Nana's stables. While I was at the well this morning a carriage came down the road. It was a rajah's carriage, and there were men riding before and behind. I asked my brother if he had seen it, and he said that it brought the Begum to Bithoor, where she is to wed the Nana." "What! A Mohammedan princess marry a Brahmin!" "It may be so, sahib. They say these great people do not consider such things when there is aught to be gained." "But what good purpose can this marriage serve?" The woman looked up at Malcolm under her long eyelashes. "Where have you been, sahib, that you have not heard that the sepoys have proclaimed the Nana as King?" she asked timidly. "King! Is he going to fight the Begum's father?" "I know not, sahib, but Delhi is far off, and Cawnpore is near. Perchance they may both be kings." A man's voice called from the darkness, and the woman hurried away. Malcolm, of course, was in a position to appraise the accuracy of her story. He knew that the Nana, a native dignitary with a grievance against the Government, was a guest of Bahadur Shah a month before the Mutiny broke out, and was at the Meerut hunting lodge on the very night of its inception. Judging by Princess Roshinara's words, her relations with the Brahmin leader were far from lover-like. What, then, did this sudden journey to Cawnpore portend? Was Sir Hugh Wheeler aware of the proposed marriage, with all the terrible consequences that it heralded? At any rate, his line of action was clear. "Get the men together, Akhab Khan," he said to the jemadar. "We march at once." Within five minutes they were on the road. There was no moon, and the trees bordering both sides of the way made the darkness intense. The still atmosphere, too, was almost overpowering. The dry earth, sun-baked to a depth of many feet, was giving off its store of heat accumulated during the day. The air seemed to be quivering as though it were laden with the fumes of a furnace. It was a night when men might die or go mad under the mere strain of existence. Its very languor was intoxicating. Nature seemed to brood over some wild revel. A fearsome thunderstorm or howling tornado of dust might reveal her fickleness of mood at any moment. It was man, not the elements, that was destined to war that night. The small party of horsemen were riding through the scattered houses of Bithoor, and had passed a brilliantly lighted palace which Malcolm took to be the residence of Nana Sahib, when they were suddenly ordered to halt. Some native soldiers, not wearing the Company's uniform, formed a line across the road. Malcolm, drawing his sword, advanced towards them. "Whose troops are you?" he shouted.