A smile went round the group. This was turning the tables on the Chief Commissioner. But Lawrence's expression did not change. He turned to the old chief, who had stood restlessly at Ahmed's side during this conversation.

"Rahmut Khan," he said, "what will you do if, for your son's sake, we pardon you?"

The chief's eyes flashed.

"I will go back to s.h.a.gpur, my village, Jan Larrens," he said, "and first slay that vile son of a dog, Dilasah, and after that I will seek Minghal Khan till I find him, and when I have slain him I shall be ready to die."

The officers smiled again--a smile not of derision, or even amus.e.m.e.nt, but rather of appreciation of the directness and honesty of the fearless old chief.

"Well, then," said Lawrence, "we pardon you, on this condition: that you go back to your village and trouble us no more. And if you keep good order, and help to maintain the peace of the frontier, we shall hold you as a friend to the British raj, and that will be for your good. And now," he added, turning to Ahmed, "do you still wish to leave the Guides?"

"No, sahib; there is no need." His face was bright with pleasure.

"What would you have done if Daly Sahib had allowed you to resign?"

"Sahib, I should have released my father."

The whole company of officers burst into a chuckling laugh; even Sir John's stern features relaxed.

"I am glad there is no need for that. Captain Daly, I think this young man's loyalty to the corps in such circ.u.mstances merits recognition.

Perhaps you will make a note of his name for the first vacancy in the commissioned ranks."

He stepped from his seat and held out his hand to the Pathan chief.

Rahmut grasped it, hesitated a moment, then said in a voice he with difficulty controlled--

"Jan Larrens, I have a thing to say. It is meet I say it. These nine years it has been locked in my heart, but the deeds of Ahmed Khan and thy kindness have proven both as a key. Ahmed Khan is the son of my heart, but not of my body. He is one of yourselves. He is a Feringhi."

And then he told the story of Ahmed from the time he had been s.n.a.t.c.hed from his father's murderers. It was characteristic of the old chief that, even though Minghal Khan was his enemy, he did not disclose the fact that it was he who had murdered Mr. Barclay.

"G.o.d bless my soul!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the astonished Englishman. "What is the boy's name!"

"Barkelay, if that is the Feringhis' way of saying it."

"By George!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Colonel Herbert Edwardes. "I knew George Barclay; so did you, Sir John; in fact, I'm not sure I haven't played ride-a-c.o.c.k horse with this youngster on my knee. The whirligig of time!--my word, it's a queer world."

Rahmut Khan was submitted to a searching cross-examination. There was no doubt about the matter: Sir John Lawrence was convinced that Ahmed was indeed George Barclay's son. Having made his confession, the old chief found it difficult to control his emotion as he contemplated the loss of the heir upon whom his pride and affection were centred. The officers meanwhile had grouped themselves about Ahmed, and plied him with questions, seeking to revive recollections of his childhood.

"What's his real name, I wonder?" said Captain Daly. "Chief, what did Barclay Sahib call the boy?"

"Jorkins," replied Rahmut.

The officers roared.

"Of course!" cried Colonel Edwardes. "Poor Barclay had a mania for nicknames. And by George! what was that nonsense I used to rattle off: it used to amuse the boy's mother--

"There was a little Jorkins, And he had a little pork ins- Ide his little tummy, And bellowed for his mummy, And howled for his daddy, Who caught him drinking madi, And said the nasty toddy Was bad for his little body----"

"How long did that go on, Edwardes?" interrupted some one.

"It never ended; I had to reel off a fresh instalment at every visit.

Poor old Barclay!"

Ahmed was dazed at all this and the dim memories which the long-forgotten doggrel revived. Looking at Edwardes, he fancied he remembered the tall jolly officer, br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with jokes, whose visits were so welcome. But he perceived the distress of Rahmut Khan, and asked permission to take him away.

When the Guides marched to Hoti-Mardan Ahmed was not among them. It had been decided that he should leave almost immediately for England, where he would find relatives of his father and mother, and where a small property awaited its owner. He took leave very cordially, yet with regret, of his comrades of the corps. Sherdil hugged the belief that Ahmed's good fortune was due mainly to the coaching he had had when a candidate for the Guides, and begged that his pupil would never forget it. Rahmut Khan remained for a week in Peshawar, made much of by the British officers, who vied with each other in entertaining him. The old man then set off on his lonely way back to s.h.a.gpur. He maintained his composure throughout his farewell interview with Ahmed; but Ahmed knew what strength of feeling was masked by his self-control.

A few weeks later Ahmed embarked for England. It had been discovered that Dr. Craddock and his daughter were leaving for home, and the doctor willingly undertook the office of guardian. He had known Ahmed's father; it was the likeness between them which had awakened a vague remembrance of having seen Ahmed before. With these good friends Ahmed Khan left the sh.o.r.es of India, but among the pa.s.sengers who disembarked at St.

Katharine's Docks there was no one of that name; he had become accustomed to hearing himself called Mr. James Barclay.

EPILOGUE

It is a bleak, raw day in November, 1863. A field force of all arms, under Sir Neville Chamberlain, is encamped in the rocky country of Umbeyla; their duty is to punish the tribesmen who, led by a fierce and fanatical mullah, have long been giving trouble. Above their camp towers an abrupt and precipitous rock, known as the Crag, and its summit is held by a picket of the 1st Panjab Infantry, a hundred and twenty strong. Twice already has the enemy, creeping up in thousands on the other side from the lower hills, driven the picket from its post, and twice has the position been recaptured at the point of the bayonet. And on this 13th of November the wild tribesmen have for the third time swarmed up to the attack, in such overwhelming force that the Crag's handful of defenders is driven back, and comes in full flight down the narrow rocky path that leads to the encampment below.

A panic seizes the camp-followers; they run hither and thither, crying that all is lost. But detachments of the Guides and the 1st Panjab Infantry gallantly climb the steep ascent, and press doggedly up and up in face of a murderous fire from the summit. They have nearly reached the top; but what can a few hundreds, even of British troops, do against the horde of fierce warriors above them? They halt; their leader sends down word that he can barely hold his own, much less retake the Crag, and asks for supports. He is almost giving way when up comes Major Ross with more Guides and more Panjabis, who scale the precipitous bluff and almost gain the crest. They, too, are checked; the dauntless fanatics above will not yield; their numbers are continually increased, and with furious and exultant cries they withstand every a.s.sault upon their vantage ground.

From the camp below Sir Neville Chamberlain watches the fight. The moment is critical; if the enemy maintain their hold on the Crag he will have to retire. It must be retaken at all costs. He orders the 101st Royal Bengal Fusiliers to the front, and more companies of the Guides; and since this is no ground for cavalry work, let the troopers dismounted share in the a.s.sault. The gallant fellows are nothing loath.

Up they go, lightly as only hill-men can. Heedless of the bullets that shower among them, they force their way steadily to the crest, and then the word is given to charge.

The line sweeps forward with a cheer--the infantry with fixed bayonets, the troopers with lance and sword. They dash full into the midst of the brave enemy; there is a shock, a slight check, and then the tribesmen falter, give back, and are driven down the slope.

The victors press on in pursuit. Some fleet-footed fellows outstrip the rest. Look at that black-bearded Guide running to overtake with his lance one of the fleeing men! Ah! he stumbles over a rock, staggers, falls at full length; and the fugitive, but a yard or two ahead, turns to cleave him as he lies. Two or three join him; he has his sword uplifted to strike, when a British lieutenant runs up and fells him with a pistol-shot. His comrades close round and beset the Englishman, four to one. Dafadar Sherdil Khan attempts to rise, but one of the enemy deals him a blow that disables him. The officer flings his pistol at the head of one man, then with his sword wards off the desperate thrusts of the others. If he stands merely on the defensive he will be overborne by numbers: there is no help at hand. Gathering his strength he rushes into the midst of the group. It breaks apart; in an instant he springs to the man on the right and cuts him down. Then he turns to deal with the rest.

One is running again to the prostrate dafadar. With great leaps the lieutenant makes after him, and reaches him just in time to prevent the fatal blow. And then, as the Englishman turns once more to face the odds, a handful of the Royal Bengals come up at the double, and sweep upon the hapless tribesmen; not one of them escapes.

James Barclay had returned to his corps. Many of his old friends were gone, but Sherdil remained, and none was more delighted than he to welcome Ahmed Khan, after his five years' absence, as a British officer.

And when, at Hoti-Mardan, some months after the fight at the Crag, it became known that Lieutenant Barclay of the Guides had been awarded the little bronze cross "For Valour," it was Sherdil, whose life he had saved, that led the troopers in their round of cheers.

Lieutenant Barclay did not forget to visit his adoptive father. Old Ahsan, bent, and very frail, knew him before he reached the gate, and his withered face beamed as he saluted him: "Salaam, hazur: truly Allah is great!"

Rahmut Khan gave him a royal welcome.

"Still art thou my son!" he cried, "and the sight of thee is very good."

He had loyally held to his compact with Jan Larrens, and the British raj had no warmer friend on the frontiers than he. Age had laid its icy finger on him; the tale of his years was well-nigh told. Only one thing troubled his peace of mind: neither Dilasah nor Minghal Khan had tasted his vengeance. Dilasah had fled from the village at the first news that the chief was returning home; and of Minghal, though he had sought diligently, he had discovered no trace.

Barclay wondered whether the two men, like Nana Sahib and Bakht Khan and other figures in the great rebellion, had disappeared for ever. But a year or so later, when he was being shown over the jail at Agra by the governor, he was taken to see two notorious ruffians who were serving a term of fifteen years' imprisonment for highway robbery with violence.

And remembering that Rahmut Khan had been imprisoned in that very jail, he thought it a just retribution when he recognized, in the two fettered prisoners tramping round and round at the pole of the oil-mill, Dilasah and Minghal Khan. He sent word of his discovery to the old chief, and in due time received an answer written by the village scribe, Dinga Ghosh.

"The house of the wicked shall not prosper. I would I had slain them; but what must be, will be. Allah be with thee!"

THE END.