CHAPTER V.
THROUGH THE WALLS.
It was a full hour past dawn on the 14th of September ere that suddensilence fell once more upon the echoing rocks of the Ridge and thescented gardens. So, for a second, the twittering birds in thethickets behind them might have been heard by the men who, with fixedbayonets, were jostling the roses and the jasmines. But they wereholding their breath--waiting, listening, for something verydifferent; while in the ears of many, excluding all other sounds,lingered the cadence of the text read by the chaplain before dawn inthe church lesson for the day.
"Woe to the bloody city--the sword shall cut thee off."
For to many the coming struggle meant neither justice nor revenge, butreligion. It was Christ against Anti-Christ. So, whether for revengeor faith they waited. A thousand down by the river opposite the WaterBastion. A thousand in the Koodsia facing the main breach, with JohnNicholson, first as ever, to lead it. A thousand more on the broadwhite road fronting the Cashmere Bastion, with an explosion partyahead to blow in the gate, and a reserve of fifteen hundred to therear waiting for success. Briefly, four thousand five hundredmen--more than half natives--for the assault, facing that half mile orso of northern wall; thus within touch of each other. Beyond, on thewestern trend, two thousand more--mostly untried troops from Jumoo anda general muster of casuals--to sweep through the suburbs and be readyto enter by the Cabul gate when it was opened to them.
Above, on the Ridge, six hundred sabers awaiting orders. Behind itthree thousand sick in hospital, a weak defense, and that rear-guardof graves.
And in front of all stood that tall figure with the keen eyes. "Areyou ready, Jones?" asked Nicholson, laying his hand on the lastleader's shoulder. His voice and face were calm, almost cold.
"Ready, sir!"
Then, startling that momentary silence, came the bugle.
"Advance!"
With a cheer the rifles skirmished ahead joyfully. The engineersposted in the furthest cover long before dawn--who had waited forhours, knowing that each minute made their task harder--rose, wavingtheir swords to guide the stormers toward the breach! Then, calmly, asif it had been dark, not daylight, crested the glacis at a swift walk,followed by the laddermen in line. Behind, with a steady tramp, thetwo columns bound for the breaches. But the third, upon the road, hadto wait a while, as, like greyhounds from a leash, a little companyslipped forward at the double.
Home of the Engineers first with two sergeants, a native havildar, andten Punjab sappers, running lightly, despite the twenty-five poundpowder bags they carried. Behind them, led by Salkeld, the firingparty and a bugler. Running under the hail of bullets, faster as theyfell faster, as men run to escape a storm; but these courted it,though the task had been set for night, and it was now broad daylight.
What then? They could see better. See the outer gateway open, thefootway of the drawbridge destroyed, the inner door closed save forthe wicket.
"Come on," shouted Home, and was across the bare beams like a boy,followed by the others.
Incredible daring! What did it mean? The doubt made the scared enemyclose the wicket hastily. So against it, at the rebels' very feet, thepowder bags were laid. True, one sergeant fell dead with his; but asit fell against the gates his task was done.
"Ready, Salkeld!--your turn," sang out young Home from the ditch, intowhich, the bags laid, the fuse set, he dropped unhurt. So across thescant foothold came the firing party, its leader holding the portfire.But the paralysis of amazement had passed; the enemy, realizing whatthe audacity meant, had set the wicket wide. It bristled now withmuskets; so did the parapet.
"Burgess!--your turn," called Salkeld as he fell, and passed theportfire to the corporal behind him. Burgess, alias Grierson,--someoneperchance retrieving a past under a new name,--took it, stooped, thenwith a half articulate cry either that it was "right" or "out," fellback into the ditch dead. Smith, of the powder party, lingering to seethe deed done, thought the latter, and, matchbox in hand, sprangforward, cuddling the gate for safety as he struck a light. But it wasnot needed. As he stooped to use it, the port-fire of the fuseexploded in his face, and, half blinded, he turned to plunge headlongfor escape into the ditch. A second after the gate was in fragments.
"Your turn, Hawthorne!" came that voice from the ditch. So the bugler,who had braved death to sound it, gave the advance. Once, twice,thrice, carefully lest the din from the breaches should drown it. Vainprecaution, not needed either; for the sound of the explosion wasenough. That thousand on the road was hungering to be no whit behindthe others, and with a wild cheer the stormers made for the gate.
But Nicholson was already in Delhi, though ten minutes had gone in afierce struggle to place a single ladder against an avalanche of shotand stone. But that one had been the signal for him to slip into theditch, and, calling on the 1st Bengal Fusiliers to follow, escaladethe bastion, first as ever.
Even so, others were before him. Down at the Water Bastion, thoughthree-quarters of the laddermen had fallen and but a third of thestorming party remained, those twenty-five men of the 8th had gainedthe breach, and, followed by the whole column, were clearing theramparts toward the Cashmere gate. Hence, again, without a check,joined by the left half of Nicholson's column, they swept the enemybefore them like frightened sheep to the Moree gate; though in thebastion itself the gunners stood to their guns and were bayonetedbeside them. There, with a whoop, some of the wilder ones leaped tothe parapet to wave their caps in exultation to the cavalry below,which, in obedience to orders, was now drawn up, ready to receive,guarding the flank of the assault, despite the murderous fire from theCabul gate, and the Burn Bastion beyond it. Sitting in their saddles,motionless, doing nothing, a mark for the enemy, yet still a wall ofdefense. So, leaving them to that hardest task of all--the courage ofinaction--the victorious rush swept on to take the Cabul gate, tosweep past it up to the Burn Bastion itself--the last bastion whichcommanded the position.
And then? Then the order came to retire and await orders at the Cabulgate. The fourth column, after clearing the suburbs, was to have beenthere ready for admittance, ready to support. It was not. AndNicholson was not there also, to dare and do all. He had had to pauseat the Cashmere gate to arrange that the column which had enteredthrough it should push on into the city, leaving the reserve to holdthe points already won. And now, with the 1st Fusiliers behind him, hewas fighting his way through the streets to the Cabul gate. So,fearing to lose touch with those behind, over-rating the danger,under-estimating the incalculable gain of unchecked advance with aneastern foe, the leader of that victorious sweeping of the rampartswas content to set the English flag flying on the Cabul gate and awaitorders. But the men had to do something. So they filled up the timeplundering. And there were liquor shops about. Europe shops, full ofwine and brandy.
The flag had been flying over an hour when Nicholson came up. But bythat time the enemy--who had been flying too--flying as far as theboat bridge in sheer conviction that the day was lost--had recoveredsome courage and were back, crowding the bastion and some tall housesbeside it. And in the lane, three hundred yards long, not ten feetwide, leading to it, two brass guns had been posted before bulletproof screens ready to mow down the intruders.
Yet once more John Nicholson saw but one thing--the Burn Bastion.Built by Englishmen, it was one of the strongest--the only remainingone, in fact, likely to give trouble. With it untaken a thorough holdon the city was impossible. Besides, with his vast knowledge of nativecharacter, he knew that the enemy had expected us to take it, andwould construe caution into cowardice. Then he had the 1st BengalFusiliers behind him. He had led them in Delhi, they had fallen in histrack in tens and fifties, and still they had come on--they would dothis thing for him now.
"We will do what we can, sir," said their commandant, Major Jacob--buthis face was grave.
"We will do what men can do, sir," said the commandant of that lefthalf of the column; "but honestly, I don't think it c
an be done. Wehave tried it once." His face was graver still.
"Nor I," said Nicholson's Brigade-major.
Nicholson, as he stood by the houses around the Cabul gate, which hadbeen occupied and plundered by the troops, looked down the straightlane again. It hugged the city wall on its right, its scanty widthnarrowed here and there by buttresses to some three feet. About athird of the way down was the first gun, placed beside a featherykikar tree which sent a lace-like tracery of shadow upon the screen.As far behind was the second. Beyond, again, was the bastion juttingout, and so forcing the lane to bend between it and some tall houses.Both were crowded with the enemy--the screens held bayonets andmarksmen. There was a gun close to the bastion in the wall, but to theleft, cityward, in the low, flat-roofed mud houses there seemed notrace of flanking foes.
"I think it can be done," he said. He knew it must be done ere thePalace could be taken. So he gave the orders. Fusiliers forward;officers to the front!
And to the front they went, with a cheer and a rush, overwhelming thefirst gun, within ten yards of the other. And one man was closerstill, for Lieutenant Butler, pinned against that second bullet-proofscreen by two bayonets thrust through the loopholes at him, had tofire his revolver through them also, ere he could escape thistwo-pronged fork.
But the fire of every musket on the bastion and the tall houses wascentered on that second gun. Grape, canister, raked the narrowlane--made narrower by fallen Fusiliers--and forced those who remainedto fall back upon the first gun--beyond that even. Yet only for amoment. Reformed afresh, they carried it a second time, spiked it andpressed on. Officers still to the front!
Just beyond the gun the commandant fell wounded to death. "Go on, men,go on!" he shouted to those who would have paused to help him."Forward, Fusiliers!"
And they went forward; though at dawn two hundred and fifty men haddashed for the breach, and now there were not a hundred and fifty leftto obey orders. Less! For fifty men and seven officers lay in thatlane itself. Surely it was time now for others to step in--and therewere others!
Nicholson saw the waver, knew what it meant, and sprang forward swordin hand, calling on those others to follow. But he asked too much.Where the 1st Fusiliers had failed, none cared to try. That is thesimple truth. The limit had been reached.
So for a minute or two he stood, a figure instinct with passion,energy, vitality, before men who, God knows with reason, had lost allthree for the moment. A colossal figure beyond them, ahead of them,asking more than mere ordinary men could do. So a pitiful figure--afailure at the last!
"Come on, men! Come on, you fools--come on, you--you----"
What the word was, which that bullet full in the chest arrestedbetween heart and lips, those who knew John Nicholson's wild temper,his indomitable will, his fierce resentment at everything which fellshort of his ideals, can easily guess.
"Lay me under that tree," he gasped, as they raised him. "I will notleave till the lane is carried. My God! Don't mind me! Forward, men,forward! It _can_ be done."
An hour or two afterward a subaltern coming out of the Cashmere gatesaw a dhooli, deserted by its bearers. In it lay John Nicholson indire agony; but he asked nothing of his fellows then save to be takento hospital. He had learned his lesson. He had done what others hadset him to do. He had entered Delhi. He had pricked the bubble, andthe gas was leaking out. But he had failed in the task he had sethimself. The Burn Bastion was still unwon, and the English force inDelhi, instead of holding its northern half up to the very walls ofthe Palace, secure from flanking foes, had to retire on the strip ofopen ground behind the assaulted wall--if, indeed, it had not toretire further still. Had one man had his way it would have retired tothe Ridge. Late in the afternoon, when fighting was over for the day,General Wilson rode round the new-won position, and, map in hand,looked despairingly toward the network of narrow lanes and alleysbeyond. And he looked at something close at hand with even greaterforebodings; for he stood in the European quarter of the town amongshops still holding vast stores of wine and spirits which had beenleft untouched by that other army of occupation.
But what of this one? This product of civilization, and culture, andChristianity; these men who could give points to those others in somany ways, but might barter their very birthright for a bottle of rum.Yet even so, the position must be held. So said Baird Smith at thechief's elbow, so wrote Neville Chamberlain, unable to leave his poston the Ridge. And another man in hospital, thinking of the BurnBastion, thinking with a strange wonder of men who could refuse tofollow, muttered under his breath, "Thank God! I have still strengthleft to shoot a coward."
And yet General Wilson in a way was right. Five days afterward MajorHodson wrote in his diary: "The troops are utterly demoralized by hardwork and hard drink. For the first time in my life I have had to seeEnglish soldiers refuse repeatedly to follow their officers. Jacob,Nicholson, Greville, Speke were all sacrificed to this."
A terrible indictment indeed, against brave men.
Yet not worse than that underlying the chief's order of the 15th,directing the Provost-marshal to search for and smash every bottle andbarrel to be found, and let the beer and wine, so urgently needed bythe sick, run into the gutters; or his admission three days later thatanother attempt to take the Lahore gate had failed from "the refusalof the European soldiers to follow their officers. One rush and itcould have been done easily--we are still, therefore, in the sameposition to-day as we were yesterday."
So much for drink.
But the enemy luckily was demoralized also. It was still full ofdefense; empty of attack.
For one thing, attack would have admitted a reverse; and over on thateastern wall of the Palace, in the fretted marble balcony overlookingthe river, there was no mention, even now, of such a word. Reverse!Had not the fourth column been killed to a man? Had not Nikalseynhimself fallen a victim to valor? But Soma, and many a man of hissort, gave up the pretense with bitter curses at themselves. They hadseen from their own posts that victorious escalade, that swift,unchecked herding of the frightened sheep. And they--intolerablethought!--were sheep also. They saw men with dark faces, no whitbetter than they--better!--the Rajpoot had at least a longer recordthan the Sikh!--led to victory while they were not led at all. Sobrought face to face once more with the old familiar glory and honor,the old familiar sight of the master first--uncompromisingly,indubitably first to snatch success from the grasp of Fate, and handit back to them--they thought of the past three months with loathing.
And as for Nikalseyn's rebuff. Soma, hearing of it from a comrade, hotat heart as he, went to the place, and looked down the lane as JohnNicholson had done. By all the Pandavas! a place for heroes indeed!Ali! if he had been there, he would have stayed there somehow. Hewalked up and down it moodily, picturing the struggle to himself;thinking with a curious anger of those men on the housetops, in thebastion, taking potshots at the unsheltered men below. That was allthere would be now. They might drive the masters back for a time, theymight inveigle them into lanes and reduce their numbers by tens andfifties, they, men of his sort, might make a brave defense.
Defense! Soma wanted to attack. Attracted by the faint shade of thekikar tree he sat down beneath it, resting against the trunk, lookingalong the lane once more, just as, a day or two before, John Nicholsonhad rested for a space. And the iron of failure entered into thisman's heart also, because there was none to lead. And with the masterthere had been none to follow.
Suddenly he rose, his mind made up. If that was so, let him go back tothe plow. That also was a hereditary trade.
That night, without a word to anyone, leaving his uniform behind him,he started along the Rohtuck road for his ancestral village. But hehad to make a detour round the suburbs, for, despite that annihilationspoken of in the Peace, they were now occupied by the English.
Yet but little headway had been made in securing a firmer hold withinthe city itself.
"You can't, till the Burn Bastion is taken and the Lahore gatesecured," said Nicholson from hi
s dying bed, whence, growingperceptibly weaker day by day, yet with mind clear and unclouded, hewatched and warned. The single eye was not closed yet, was not evenmade dim by death. It saw still, what it had seen on the day of theassault; what it had coveted then and failed to reach.
But it was not for five days after this failure that even Baird Smithrecognized the absolute accuracy of this judgment, and, against theChief's will, obtained permission to sap through the shelter of theintervening houses till they could tackle the bastion at close andcommanding quarters without asking the troops to face another lane. Soon the morning of the 19th, after a night of storm and rain coolingthe air incredibly, the pick-ax began what rifles and swords hadfailed to do. By nightfall a tall house was reached, whence thebastion could be raked fore and aft. Its occupants, recognizing this,took advantage of the growing darkness to evacuate it. Half an hourafterward the master-key of the position was in English hands.
Rather unsteady ones, for here again the troops--once more the 8th,the 75th, the Sikh Infantry, and that balance of the Fusiliers--hadfound more brandy.
"_Poisoned, sir?_" said one thirsty trooper, flourishing a bottle ofExshaw's Number One before the eyes of his Captain, who, as a lastinducement to sobriety, was suggesting danger. "Not a bit of it.Capsules all right."
But this time England could afford a few drunk men. The bastion wasgone, and by the Turkoman and Delhi gates half the town was going. Andnot only the town. Down in the Palace men and women, with fumblinghands and dazed eyes, like those new roused from dreams, weresnatching at something to carry with them in their flight. Bukht Khanstood facing the Queen in her favorite summer-house, alone, save forHafzan, the scribe, who lingered, watching them with a certain malicein her eyes. She had been right. Vengeance had been coming. Now it hadcome.
"All is not lost, my Queen," said Bukht Khan, with hand on sword. "Theopen country lies before us, Lucknow is ours--come!"
"And the King, and my son," she faltered. The dull glitter of hertarnished jewelry seemed in keeping with the look on her face. Therewas something sordid in it. Sordid, indeed, for behind that mask ofwifely solicitude and maternal care lay the thought of her hiddentreasure.
"Let them come too. Naught hinders it."
True. But the gold, the gold!
After he had left her, impatient of her hesitation, a sudden terrorseized her, lest he might have sought the King, lest he might persuadehim.
"My bearers--woman! Quick!" she called to Hafzan. "Quick, fool! mydhooli!"
But even dhooli bearers have to fly when vengeance shadows thehorizon; and in that secluded corner none remained. Everyone was busyelsewhere; or from sheer terror clustered together where soldiers wereto be found.
"The Ornament-of-Palaces can walk," said Hafzan, still with that faintmalice in her face. "There is none to see, and it is not far."
So, for the last time, Zeenut Maihl left the summer-house whence shehad watched the Meerut road. Left it on foot, as many a better womanas unused to walking as she was leaving Delhi with babies on theirbreasts and little children toddling beside them. Past the faintoutline of the Pearl Mosque, through the cool damp of the wateredgarden with the moon shining overhead, she stumbled laboriously. Upthe steps of the Audience Hall toward a faint light by the Throne. TheKing sat on it, almost in the dark; for the oil cressets on a trefoilstand only seemed to make the shadows blacker. They lay thick upon theroof, blotting out that circling boast. Before him stood Bukht Khan,his hand still on his sword, broad, contemptuously bold. But on eitherside of the shrunken figure, half lost in the shadows also, were othercounselors. Ahsan-Oolah, wily as ever, Elahi Buksh, the time-server,who saw the only hope of safety in prompt surrender.
"Let the Pillar-of-Faith claim time for thought," the latter wassaying. "There is no hurry. If the soubadar-sahib is in one, let himgo----"
Bukht Khan broke in with an ugly laugh, "Yea, Mirza-sahib, I can go,but if I go the army goes with me. Remember that. The King can keepthe rabble. I have the soldiers."
Bahadur Shah looked from one to the other helplessly. Whether to go,risk all, endure a life of unknown discomfort at his age, or remain,alone, unprotected, he knew not.
"Yea! that is true. Still there is no need for hurry," put in thephysician, with a glance at Elahi Buksh. "Let my master bid thesoubadar and the army meet him at the Tomb of Humayon to-morrowmorning. 'Twill be more seemly time to leave than now, like a thiefin the night."
Bukht Khan gave a sharp look at the speaker, then laughed again. Hesaw the game. He scarcely cared to check it.
"So be it. But let it be before noon. I will wait no longer."
As he passed out hastily he almost ran into a half-veiled figure,which, with another behind it, was hugging one of the pillars, peeringforward, listening. He guessed it for the Queen, and paused instantly.
"'Tis thy last chance, Zeenut Maihl," he whispered in her ear. "Come ifthou art wise."
The last. No! not that. The last for sovereignty perhaps, but not forhidden treasure. Half an hour afterward, a little procession of Royaldhoolies passed out of the Palace on their way to Elahi Buksh's housebeside the Delhi gate, and Ahsan-Oolah walked beside the Queen's. Hehad gold also to save, and he was wise; so she listened, and as shelistened she told herself that it would be best to stay. Her life wassafe, and her son was too young for the punishment of death. As forthe King, he was too old for the future to hold anything else.
Hafzan watched her go, still with that half-jeering smile, then turnedback into the empty Palace. Even in the outer court it was empty,indeed, save for a few fanatics muttering texts; and within theprecincts, deserted utterly, silent as the grave. Until, suddenly,from the Pearl Mosque a voice came, giving the call to prayer; for itwas not far from dawn.
She paused, recognizing it, and leaving the marble terracewhere she had been standing, looking riverward, walked over to thebronze-studded door, and peered in among the white arches of themosque for what she sought.
And there it was, a tall white figure looking westward, its backtoward her, its arms spread skyward. A fanatic of fanatics.
"Thou art not wise to linger here, Moulvie sahib," she called. "Hastnot heard? The Burn Bastion is taken. The King and Queen have fled.The English will be here in an hour or so, and then----"
"And then there comes judgment," answered Mohammed Ismail, turning tolook at her sternly. "Doth not it lie within these walls? I stay here,woman, as I have stayed."
"Nay, not here," she argued in conciliatory tones. "It lies yonder, inthe outer court, by the trees shadowing the little tank. Thou canstsee it from the window of my uncle's room. And he hath gone--like theothers. 'Twere better to await it there."
She spoke as she would have spoken to a madman. And, indeed, she heldhim to be little else. Here was a man who had saved forty infidels,whose reward was sure. And who must needs imperil it by lingeringwhere death was certain; must needs think of his battered soul insteadof his body. Mohammed Ismail came and stood beside her, with a curiousacquiescence in regard to detail's which is so often seen in menmastered by one idea.
"It may be better so, sister," he said dreamily. "'Tis as well to beprepared."
Hafzan's hard eyes melted a little, for she had a real pity for thisman who had haunted the Palace persistently, and lost his reason overhis conscience.
If she could once get him into her uncle's room, she would find somemethod of locking him in, of keeping him out of mischief. For herself,being a woman, the Huzoors were not to be feared.
"Yea! 'tis as well to be near," she said as she led the way.
And the time drew near also; for the dawn of the 20th of September hadbroken ere, with the key of the outer door in her bosom, she retiredinto an inner room, leaving the Moulvie saying his prayers in theother. Already the troops, recovered from their unsteadiness, hadcarried the Lahore gate and were bearing down on the mosque. Theyfound it almost undefended. The circling flight of purple pigeons,which at the first volley flew westward, the sun glistening on theiriridescent pluma
ge, was scarcely more swift than the flight of thosewho attempted a feeble resistance. And now the Palace lay close by.With it captured, Delhi was taken. Its walls, it is true, roseunharmed, secure as ever, hemming in those few acres of God's earthfrom the march of time; but they were strangely silent. Only now andagain a puff of white smoke and an unavailing roar told that someone,who cared not even for success, remained within.
So powder bags were brought. Home of the Engineers sent for, that hemight light the fuse which gave entry to the last stronghold; forthere was no hurry now. No racing now under hailstorms, and overtightropes. Calmly, quietly, the fuse was lit, the gate shivered toatoms, and the long red tunnel with the gleam of sunlight at its endlay before the men, who entered it with a cheer. Then, here and thererose guttural Arabic texts, ending in a groan. Here and there theclash of arms. But not enough to rouse Hafzan, who, long ere this, hadfallen asleep after her wakeful night. It needed a touch on hershoulder for that, and the Moulvie's eager voice in her ear.
"The key, woman! The key--give it! I need the key."
Half-dazed by sleep, deceived by the silence, she put her handmechanically to her bosom. His followed hers; he had what he sought,and was off. She sprang to her feet, recognizing some danger, andfollowed him.
"He is mad! He is mad!" she cried, as her halting steps lingeredbehind the tall white figure which made straight for a crowd ofsoldiers gathered round the little tank. There were other soldiershere, there, everywhere in the rose-red arcades around the sun-litcourt. Soldiers with dark faces and white ones seeking victims,seeking plunder. But these in the center were all white men, and theywere standing, as men stand to look at a holy shrine, upon the placewhere, as the spies had told them, English women and children had beenmurdered.
So toward them, while curses were in all hearts and on some lips, camethe tall white figure with its arms outspread, its wild eyes aflame.
"O God of Might and Right! Give judgment now, give judgment now."
The cry rolled and echoed through the arcades to alien ears even asother cries.
"He is mad--he saved them--he is mad!" gasped the maimed woman behind;but her cry seemed no different to those unheeding ears.
The tall white figure lay on its face, half a dozen bayonets in itsback, and half a dozen more were after Hafzan.
"Stick him! Stick him! A man in disguise. Remember the women andchildren. Stick the coward!"
She fled shrieking--shrill, feminine shrieks; but the men's blood wasup. They could not hear, they would not hear; and yet the awkwardnessof that flying figure made them laugh horribly.
"Don't 'ustle 'im! Give 'im time! There's plenty o' run in 'im yet,mates. Lord! 'e'd get first prize at Lillie Bridge 'e would."
Someone else, however, had got it at Harrow not a year before, and wasafter the reckless crew. Almost too late--not quite. Hafzan, run toearth against a red wall, felt something on her back, and gave a wildyell. But it was only a boy's hand.
"My God! sir, I've stuck you!" faltered a voice behind, as a man stoodrigid, arrested in mid-thrust.
"You d----d fool!" said the boy. "Couldn't you hear it was a woman?I'll--I'll have you shot. Oh, hang it all! Drag the creature away,someone. Get out, do!"
For Hafzan, as he stood stanching the blood from the slight wound, hadfallen at his feet and was kissing them frantically.
But even that indignity was forgotten as the stained handkerchiefanswered the flutter of something which at that moment caught thebreeze above him.
It was the English flag.
The men, forgetting everything else, cheered themselveshoarse--cheered again when an orderly rode past waving a slip of papersent back to the General with the laconic report:
"Blown open the gates! Got the Palace!"
But Hafzan, her veil up to prevent mistakes, limped over to where theMoulvie lay, turned him gently on his back, straightened his limbs andclosed his eyes. She would have liked to tell the truth to someone,but there was no one to listen. So she left him there before thetribunal to which he had appealed.