A Desert Bride E-Book

Hume Nisbet

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Ronald Makivor and Jack Bangles decided to find the „peacock throne” of Shah Jehan, who, as they say, Nadir Shah took away from Delhi. Their adventures begin with fleeing wide legs from the rebellious sepoys. Over time, they enter the service of the Afghan prince – a model of knightly honor – who must have been very unlike his compatriots, unless they are greatly offended by the general message. In his company, they go through amazing experience and see that they are fighting enough to satisfy the most warlike taste.

Leseprobe

Contents

PREFACE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER XXXIV

CHAPTER XXXV

CHAPTER XXXVI

CHAPTER XXXVII

EPILOGUE

PREFACE

This is the story of two brave yet not extraordinary young men, who took a strange notion into their heads, as most fellows do at times, and went out to the world of India in search of adventures–and riches, of course, for we all would like that termination to our efforts, as far as earthly endeavours are concerned at least.

One of the youths had heard, and the other had read, about that seventh wonder of the world, the gem-covered “Peacock Throne,” which the Great Mogul of Delhi, Shah Jehan, had made for him at a cost of nearly six millions of pounds sterling, which took the Court jewellers seven years to make, and which the Persian conqueror, Nadir Shah, carried away, after one day of fearful and wholesale slaughter of the subjects who had helped to pay for this very expensive ornament.

The framework of this throne was made of pure gold encrusted with precious stones, and overshadowed by a golden canopy decorated with pearls. Two peacocks formed the back of the throne, with their tails expanded, the radiant colouring being produced entirely by rubies, sapphires, emeralds, diamonds and pearls of the purest water. So lavishly used were these rare stones, that an ignoramus might have taken them for bits of coloured glass and paste.

Now, the notion that these young men took into their extravagant brains was to go and seek for that Peacock Throne, which had been carried away and completely lost sight of for so many years. They reasoned that such an expensive piece of furniture must be somewhere hidden, and that Persia, the home of Nadir Shah, was most likely to be the locality; also, with that unbounded confidence and faith which only youth is capable of feeling to the miracle-working instinct, they considered that they were the heroes to find it.

Where they went, what they passed through, and how they eventually did discover this wonderful piece of art-work, you will also find out if you go along with them in their journeyings; how they were fortunate enough to meet with a native prince who had all the qualities of the heroes they had read about in ancient stories of chivalry, and who entranced them with his old-world nobility and heroism, as I fondly trust every true man and woman may be also with this daring real knight of the nineteenth century, and become the better for reading about his gallant actions and troubles.

And with this hope, I leave my story to unfold its own length, and beg to remain each reader’s

Humble and sincere Servant,

THE AUTHOR.

CHAPTER I

INTRODUCING JACK BANGLES AND RONALD MACIVOR

The extraordinary adventures of my two heroes might cause some people to doubt their authenticity, were it not already well known that the chronicler is a man of the strictest veracity.

One of my heroes was, alas! a very common youth, that is, he had no sort of correct bringing up at all, but picked most of his education from about the streets, which not being edifying, gained for him the title of a bad boy unmistakably, and what was worse, he never had any aspirations to become better, in spite of all that the chaplain and some of the benevolent ladies of the mission tried to do for him.

Benares was the city where, like Topsy, he “growed.” Benares, that beautiful and holy city on the river Ganges, where the pilgrims came to wash away their many sins. Perhaps the pilgrims left a number of their sins, along with their loose hairs, on the banks of this sacred river, and which may partly account for this foolish young fellow picking up so much that was objectionable to respectable and orderly people.

His name was Jack; now, I fancy that Jack is the most appropriate name for a reckless and untrained young man. At least, all the bad boys are generally known as Jack, while the staid and good ones are called John.

Jack Bangles was the name he went by, although he had been christened John Adolphus D’Arcy, and his surname was Norman and ancient like the family his scapegrace father belonged to; however, the soldiers of Benares had dropped the Adolphus D’Arcy, and given him Bangles as a friendly nickname, as they are generally so fond of doing with their favourites, so as Bangles we must know him through this story.

His father, at one time a captain in the army, had deserted his wife and company very early in Jack’s career, leaving mother and son destitute in this holy city; and as for that mother, there is not much to say about her, for she was a very ordinary if hard-working and honest little woman. She had been a pretty but fifth-rate actress before her marriage, but her beauty had soon faded in India, while she was forced to utilise her poor abilities at concerts and music-halls, in order to keep herself and little Jack from starvation; painting her face up and decorating herself with the cheap ornaments of the East, and with all the other stage devices, only making at the best of times starvation wages, so that they had both to go to bed very often hungry, until Jack grew big enough to cater for himself, after which things didn’t go so badly with them.

Ronald MacIvor was the name of my other hero, the son of an English officer who had been about a twelvemonth located in the land, and who, a fine frank fellow himself, trusted his son out of sight without any conditions, satisfied that he had the blood of the MacIvors in his veins, and that this lofty strain was quite sufficient to help his boy in the only path which a perfect knight and gentleman can possibly walk.

The two boys had met by accident one day. Ronald MacIvor, passing aimlessly along the streets on this hot day, had seen Jack Bangles trying to defend himself against a crowd of cowardly Eurasians; and Ronald, like his father, being a creature of impulse and chivalry, without much consideration for caste, rushed to the rescue, helped to scatter the assailants, and only then turned to examine the side which he had taken, to find himself being thanked by a fearfully tanned and tatterdemalion boy of his own age, yet who appeared more like a stage prince in disguise than a bona fide pariah beggar of Benares.

A boy of about thirteen, slender and straight as a dart, with limbs beautifully proportioned, and complexion, although almost as dark as a native’s with the fierce sunshine beating so constantly upon it, yet showing unmistakably European; for there can be no mistaking the sickly olive of the native for the sun-tan on the skin of a brunette Englishman. Jack Bangles looked English to the back-bone in spite of his rags, and, what was more, he looked like what the pure-bred aristocrat of long descent is supposed to appear.

Classical and strongly-marked features, flashing brown eyes, with the whites as they should be, snow-white teeth behind those ripe-red lips–the gnawing of old bones and dry crusts had polished those ivories as no dentifrice could have done–small shell-like ears, small yet strong and well-shaped hands, and finely arched and pointed feet. With his wavy and tangled shock of dark hair and general pose of grace, resolution, fearlessness and innate strength, Ronald MacIvor did not take long to sum up this ragged prince, or decide about offering him his friendship.

“You are a mem-sahib boy, are you not–a mother’s darling, ain’t you?” observed this youthful cynic a little scornfully, as he looked over the other’s neat clothes, while he contrasted his own rags, with the feeling that gratitude might exist, but friendship never, with such inequality.

“I have no mother,” replied Ronald, a little sadly.

“But you own a father, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then he’d never allow you to take up with the likes of me.”

“Yes, he would; you come and see him.”

“Hum! I’ll tell you what I am game to do. You’ve got a father, and I have a mother; come and see my old woman first, and if you can stand her into the bargain, I’ll go with you and see what sort your dad is, then perhaps we can be friends after that, for you can fight–almost as well as I can myself.”

Jack took his finely-dressed new-made friend into the hovel where his mother spent her days, and introduced her to the boy, who did not seem in the least degree affected either by her appearance or her surroundings.

Mrs Bangles was, at this hour of the morning, a withered, shrivelled, yellow-visaged little scarecrow, with hollow eyes, who passed most of the time smoking cheroots until the moment when the mysteries of the toilet began. Then she would retire from sight to an inner apartment, and after a couple or so of hours’ seclusion, she would emerge round-faced, clear-complexioned and almost beautiful, with her golden tresses and flashing eyes. That, however, was only, of course, when she had an engagement to sing. When Ronald first saw her, she was at her smoking and withered stage, so that he saw nothing to alter his determination to be the sworn friend of her handsome son, for the hovel, although poorly furnished, was clean and tidy. Jack, who was watching him jealously, grew softened at the utter unconscious of this rich boy, and said,–

“You’re a good sort, Ronald, and if your father lets us, I’ll be your friend.”

The boys then went out together to interview the captain, who, when he had examined Jack, saw nothing to prevent the compact; he might be a bad boy certainly, but he was not a cringing one, and as for his clothes, that evil could easily be remedied.

So Jack Bangles and Ronald MacIvor became chums, or rather Ronald the rich boy became the dutiful henchman and follower of the more dominant Jack, whom privations and scorn had made older than his years.

No greater contrast could be imagined than these two friends; for while Jack was dark and finely built, Ronald was thick-set, large-boned and fair as a Norseman, with fearless blue eyes, golden hair and ruddy skin. He had spent most of his young days in the Highlands before coming to India, and therefore had to depend altogether upon the native knowledge of the other, so that, before the first day of the league was over, Jack Bangles had taken the post of leader quite naturally and easily; and as he had now a suit of Ronald’s clothes on, he looked the character to perfection, while Ronald did not at all object to be patronised, or play the subordinate part. He had a vast amount of generous affection in his disposition, with an utter unconsciousness of dignity, and although he would have quarrelled instantly, and fought as well, if he had seen anything low or mean about his companion, yet, not seeing this, he was content to follow where the other led.

As for Jack, well, he was a boy who was getting his chance for the first time in his life; who had been regarded by most of the people who knew him as a hopeless case, who might by-and-by make a fairly good soldier when he was old enough to enlist, but who at present could not be too much kicked and hunted about.

But there was nothing mean or cruel about him for all that; he hated liars, and would have abhorred himself if, to save his hide, he could have stooped to tell a lie. Animals were safe also at his hands, for, indeed, hitherto they had been his only friends; and, with all his ignorance of books, he had a singularly imaginative mind, well stored with native legends, and a sturdy idea that the time would yet come when, by a lucky stroke, he would conquer all their misfortunes, and raise his poor mother, whom he loved in a fierce sort of way, from her present position of poverty and neglect.

These were some of the vague ideas which filled the mind of this dark-eyed boy in his serious moments, but which were not quite so common, perhaps, as the moods that made him the terror of Benares.

CHAPTER II

THE ANCIENT FAKIR

“Why don’t you ‘list, Jack? I’m going to be a soldier shortly,” asked Ronald one day, as the two boys were sitting on the river banks.

“So I will by-and-by, Ronald; but I want to keep my liberty for a purpose.”

“What purpose, Jack?”

“Did you ever hear about the Peacock Throne, which used to be in Delhi once upon a time?”

“Of course I’ve read about it; but what of that?”

“I’m going to hunt until I get that throne.”

“My!”

Ronald opened his eyes with wonder at his friend’s daring idea.

“Yes. Now, tell me what you have read about that throne, and then I’ll let you know what I have heard.”

“Well,” observed Ronald, “we know from our school-books that the great Shah Jehan got this throne of gems and gold made for him, regardless of expense, and that it was carried off by Nadir Shah, the Persian, with a lot of other loot from Delhi.”

“Exactly; but do your school-books tell you where Nadir Shah took all those jewels to?”

“No; but I suppose he took it back to Persia with him.”

“Yes, that is where he took them first. Now you come with me, and I’ll introduce you to an old fakir, who can show us both where they are now, and where we may find them if you are game to go with me after them. We shall come home rich men, and see something like life between this and then.”

The river side at Benares is very beautiful and animated, and has been so for many centuries, with its numerous minarets, pyramids and temples, its lining of ghauts, and multitude of native boats and bathers.

The bright sunshine laved this gaily-coloured and busy scene, which was perpetually like a fair, for never was that muddy-coloured water allowed to settle down and get clear. The worshippers were there by the thousand, dipping over their heads, and coming up the bank or steps purified, but not any cleaner, afterwards to get their foreheads painted by the priests, and then continuing their pilgrimage to the sacred, but very much beforded, wells of Knowledge and Purification, which would enable them to pass through life all wise and all stainless, happy Hindoos that they were.

To the two boy companions these sights were too common for them to heed them much. Commonplace also had become the temples, so closely ranked together with the mansions of the rich princes and rajas, the constant processions and droves of sacred cows walking through the narrow streets.

Jack Bangles led his companion down one of the narrowest of those streets, and also, perhaps, one of the most sanctified, as far as the accumulated droppings from the holy cattle was concerned, until they came to a place of lodging devoted to the entertainment of travelling fakirs, so sordid and evil-odoured that Ronald had to pause and take hold of his nose before he could summon up courage to enter.

“Can’t we have the fakir outside, Jack?” he whispered imploringly to his friend, as he paused at the gateway, and looked ruefully within.

“No, Ronald,” replied Jack; “this fakir hasn’t seen the daylight for forty years, and he has become so holy that it is only a few special favourites who are admitted to his den, which hasn’t been cleaned out either during that time; forty years ago, they tell me, he took his last wash in the Ganges, while he vowed that it was to serve him his lifetime, and he hasn’t stirred from his seat since then.”

“Then he must be a moss-covered statue now, I should say.”

“Oh, he’s a marvel of wisdom and dirt, but I have become a favourite of his, and he has promised me good fortune; come on, old fellow, he doesn’t smell half so strong as you would think, for the time he has been kept in the cellar.”

Through the courtyard they went, where a crowd of these self-torturers were disporting themselves in the interesting but blood-curdling manner peculiar to fakirs in general.

For their special convenience this yard had been arranged something after the style of a school gymnasium, with swings, hooks, chains, and iron prongs fixed in the walls, in as varied a manner as the fancy of the genial host could invent.

Some of the performers were going round about in a razzle-dazzle fashion attached to the chains and hooks, which were firmly imbedded in their flesh, on the parts of their bodies which they considered wanted mortifying mostly. All were free to choose upon their pet instrument of torture, with the portion of their anatomy which they desired to operate upon, after they had paid their fees of admission; and this was all that the kindly landlord had to do–take the door-money, and watch the voluntary performers.

The place had not been cleaned out since its inauguration, as it would have been sacrilege to clean it out, even had it been possible to do so, which no one short of Hercules could have done.

It takes a good deal of this kind of sport to revolt boys, therefore both Ronald and Jack stood for a time, like stoics, looking upon the varied and ghastly sights around them; or rather they got excited over the grimaces and contortions of the whirling or crucified devotees, and encouraged them on with such words as–

“Go it, black hair, you’ve beat bald head by an inch; stick in that hook a bit deeper, blind eye, or you’ll be dropping off; never say die, skeleton, as long’s you’ve got a piece of skin to hook on to.”

Which words seemed to encourage the holy men so much that they redoubled their efforts, shrieking out louder while they swung faster on that roundabout way to paradise.

After crossing the yard, they passed through some of the inner chambers well crammed with worshippers, who were vieing with each other as to who could the soonest disfigure that masterpiece of the Creator, and make themselves vile. Still Jack went on, careless and unchallenged, for he had been here before, and beyond the owner of this inquisition, none of the victims noticed the intruders, as they were all too intent upon their own practices.

Down some slimy and foul steps Jack led his friend into an utter darkness of awful smells, until poor Ronald almost gave up, he felt so sick and choking.

At last, after following a dank passage, they came to a small cell, or rather what appeared to be a niche in the wall, which was lighted up by a tiny oil lamp, and within which sat a figure that at first sight seemed to be a dust and mud-covered image of some kind–the image of some uncouth and uncanny-looking god.

A naked figure it was, with the dirt and accumulations of years clothing it as with a horrid vestment, while it sat motionless and in the attitude of meditation, with its lack-lustre eyes reflecting blackly the shine of the little lamp in front of it.

The fakir’s hands were resting upon his naked knees, into which the long, uncut nails had grown, so that it was now an impossibility for him even to move them, while the sinews and muscles of his legs had so stiffened that he could never again rise or stand upright. Long locks of dingy white hung over his face and shoulders, showing up like a sheep’s fleece before washing time; while what those locks might contain, no man nor boy dare conjecture.

He was reckoned to be one of the holiest and wisest of his peculiar craft, and had been fed for the forty odd years of his rest by devotees who visited his shrine for the purpose of consulting him as to their future, and giving him donations; in fact, he was the most profitable lodger of the establishment, for beyond what he required to eat, the owner of the place got all the surplus alms, which were considerable.

On this day he appeared to be dozing, but woke somewhat when Jack, who had come prepared, went up and stuck a chapatí between his lips, while Ronald hung back respectfully as far as he dared do.

After the first chapatí had disappeared, another followed, and then the dim eyes grew brighter as he fixed them upon his feeder.

“You know what I come for, father, to-day?” said Jack, as a gleam of recognition flashed from the hollow eyes.

“Yes, my son; you wish to go at once after the treasure, and so you shall soon now,–after Death has come to help you on your way.”

It was a strange, rumbling voice that uttered those words, indistinct and slow, as if speaking were an effort, yet Jack understood them, and answered,–

“Have I to die, father?”

“No, not yet, not until you have enjoyed what you want; yet death has to come and give you liberty.”

“My mother?”

“No, she will live yet awhile. Who is that beside you?”

“My friend, Ronald MacIvor, sahib.”

“Ah, death stands near to him, yet not to claim him, but someone dear to him; he will go forth with you on the quest.”

“That is what we want; and where have we to go?”

“To the land of the fire-worshippers; north, north and west, through jungles and mountain passes, as the armies came you will go, and when you approach the end, the secret way will be shown to you by one who now waits for your coming.”

“But how shall I know this one when I meet him?” asked Jack.

“The gods will direct your footsteps to a mountain cave, where waits one like as I am, who has waited many years with his right arm and forefinger pointing the rest of the way.”

“And what more?”

“In his left hand he holds a paper with the secret engraved, and under his foot lies the key which will open the door behind which the treasure lies.”

“But how have I to know when I am near to this place, father?” again urged Jack, who had heard something like this before, but now wanted more definite instructions.

“If you are destined to win the treasure, go to the holy magician Mahadev, who sits by the Well of Knowledge, and he will show you the way; if you are not to win it, then you will not see anything. I can speak no more; farewell, my sons.”

The light died out of the old man’s sunken orbs as he finished speaking, yet he still mumbled broken words behind his shock of matted beard and hair.

“Through the kingdom of death they will pass,–past the lair of the man-eater,–but if they are destined to reach the cave, no force in Nature can harm them. Yet, Ah Savi! how they must endure before the reward is theirs; if they are not, then the end will be swift, as it has been with so many who have tried to follow that deadly track. I have said.”

Jack the fearless heard and understood those muttered words, but they did not shake his resolve, neither did he translate them to his friend, for he had no desire to dishearten him; he only said,–

“Come on, Ronald, the old fellow has once again gone back to meditation-land, and will give us no further information; but I know enough for the present, the rest we can learn afterwards when we make the start.”

“I hope my father won’t object, Jack, to us going together, for of course we must consult him first.”

“Of course, we shall see him about it at once; but if he does, Ronald?”

“Why, then, it will be all over as far as I am concerned, for I must obey orders, or else I could never hope to become a good soldier.”

“Oh, he’ll give his consent when I tell him I shall be with you to look after you. Why, I’m as good as a native guide and shikarì; in fact, it’s going to be a pleasure trip, so that Captain MacIvor could not possibly say no. Come on.”

The boys hurriedly scrambled up the stairs, and left this temple of filth and fanaticism as rapidly as they could.

CHAPTER III

THE BEGINNING OF THE JOURNEY

Ronald MacIvor did not get the chance of asking his father’s permission to go on that adventurous journey, because death, as the old fakir had predicted, passed in before him, and claimed the gallant captain for his own with that suddenness which this grim autocrat so often displays in India.

While the boys were within the fakir’s den, Captain MacIvor had been seized in the street with cholera, and, before they reached his bungalow, poor Ronald was an orphan, with few to take interest enough in him to question his intentions or actions, for his father, as so many of us have, had many acquaintances, but few friends.

The captain had no means apart from his pay, and he had lived up to that; therefore, when his effects came to be summed up, after the funeral expenses, Ronald found himself penniless, and in the possession of two friends only, and these were Jack Bangles and his mother, the very occasionally employed concert singer.

Of course the brother-officers of the late lamented MacIvor sent round the hat during mess, and raised about twenty-five pounds, like the good-hearted but desperately hard-up fellows they always are, while the colonel proposed either to send the lad home to his friends in Scotland, or else get him into the regiment as a drummer-boy.

But Ronald had no friends in Scotland; at least his Scotch friends had not impressed him with any desire to test the strength of their relationship from the recollections he had of them, and, as he told the colonel, he had other views at present, which that gentleman was very glad to hear, for he held the opinion that the pauper sons of gentlemen don’t make good drummer-boys; therefore Ronald took the twenty-five sovereigns subscribed, and the other five which came to him from the sale of his father’s effects, and, handing his stock of thirty pounds to Mrs Bangles, she adopted him straight away, and, as long as the money lasted, treated him to the best that the city of Benares could yield, as is the way with professional people when they have a little money in hand.

For the six weeks following the burial of his adored and revered father, mundane matters were regarded by poor Ronald MacIvor with perfect indifference. He was of too manly a temperament to go mooning and moping about, making a parade of the grief, that was gnawing at his heart, to the outside world. Like all manly boys, he was mightily ashamed to be caught shedding tears; yet, although he bore up bravely during the daytime, he often longed for the friendly cover of night, when, sure of his companion Jack being asleep, he could give way to the sweet, if selfish, luxury of grief. There, in the darkness, he could weep out his overcharged heart, and at length fall asleep, feeling that he was being rocked within four clasped arms, the embraces of his dead father and mother.

Mrs Bangles was one of those people who have learnt to be philosophic by experience and the hard rubbing of a phlegmatic world. When, therefore, Ronald came to her in his hour of trouble, and brought with him his tiny fortune, her most natural instinct was to expend that sum of money, and make it go as far as possible in the shape of comforts–bodily comforts, for, as the past had proved to her, sorrow seems doubly hard to stand out against when the body is starving as well as the soul. As she sagely remarked, in the language of Shakespeare,–

“‘Things without all remedy should be without regard. What’s done is done.’ I shall do my best to be a mother to you, Ronald, and try my hardest to comfort your mind; but while this money lasts you shall not go to bed supperless, and this is the best way I can sympathise with you, for I have had my losses also.”

There was no rouge on the little woman’s cheeks at this time; therefore Ronald, as he looked at her, felt that what she said was true.

“Yes, Jack has told me a little of your troubles, Mrs Bangles.”

Mrs Bangles took two or three vicious puffs at her cheroot, and then she answered,–

“Troubles! I should think that I have had them–kicked and cuffed about all my girlhood by a drunken father and a harassed mother, who had to dance for us all to keep us in bread and cheese. Then came my own time, when I had to work for the whole gang, until Jack’s father met me, and married me offhand on the beggarly pay of a subaltern, bringing me out to India, and filling my arms with children without thinking how they were to be kept.”

“You had more than Jack, then, Mrs Bangles?”

“I had eight, besides Jack, at one time,” replied the poor mother softly, “six fine boys and three pretty girls; and then my noble husband got into disgrace somehow, and bolted, leaving me with his children to do what I could for them in India. That’s how I came back to the miserable profession which I thought I had left for ever. Ah! that was the time, Ronald, my lad, for a woman either to break down completely, or else get her heart changed to stone. I didn’t break down, so I became what I am, able to face life in all its phases, able to crush down memories, and bear with courage the evil hour, or enjoy the pleasant moment while it lasts. One after one my children left me to go to God, who could take more care of them. The first wee bairn I lost nearly killed me also, though; but, after that, I learnt to look at them before they were carried out of my sight, and say: ‘Thank God for His goodness in taking another spirit away from this wicked and miserable world.’ And then once more, like King David, I could rise up and feast, with the words: ‘I shall go to them, but they cannot return to me.’”

Ronald felt she was wise, and that her advice was the best for his troubles. Therefore he let her lay out in her own reckless way his money. She was a first-rate cook, and, as we have said, spent her time with the boys, cooking, feasting, and driving about. Then, when the funds became low, they sat down to consider matters, and plan out their future.

Mrs Bangles’ life had been one of adventure and excitement, so she entered with eagerness into the Peacock Throne jewel hunt. Yet, being an actress, nothing but a stagey way of going to work would please her, and this suited the boys exactly.

She would go along with them, for she wasn’t going to be parted from Jack. At first they would work their way up country in a legitimate fashion by stages, resting at such places as Allahabad, Cawnpore, Agra, Delhi, and the other towns where the British were quartered, where they would give performances to provide themselves with travelling expenses; and after that they would dress themselves up like natives, for both mother and son could speak the language perfectly; and plunge into the wilds, and trust to luck for the rest. They would be three boys while they were natives.

The idea was romantic enough to drive all thoughts of moping out of Ronald’s mind. Therefore, while they were feasting, Mrs Bangles set to work and prepared their wardrobes, besides planning out a little entertainment in which they could all take a part. It was after the variety order, and did not require much rehearsing, for the English residents in India were at this date easily pleased in the way of public performances.

Jack could play the banjo, and Ronald soon mastered the bones, while Mrs Bangles managed the castanets and dances; and with a few outrageous print dresses, paints, wigs, topical songs and comic patter, they were ready for the tour as far as the towns were concerned.

For the jungle portion of the way, powder and shot were about the whole thing required, for Ronald had a good stock of guns and other weapons which his father had left him, and Mrs Bangles had her brass pots and pans, without which no one travels in India.

The three of them had visited the holy magician Mahadev, and got their fortunes read; and, what was better to Jack, had had revealed in a series of mirage pictures several of the most eventful episodes in their future, and from which he trusted to be able to pilot them to that Persian cave, at the entrance to which sat the pointing fakir; for, now that he had seen his likeness, he thought that he would be able to recognise him again in the flesh, only the worst of it was, as they afterwards found out, these mirage pictures had not been the least like the reality.

According to this holy magician, the dangers in this journey would be numerous and terrible; yet in each of the visions he had seen three figures going forward unhurt, and that was very consoling and pluck-inspiring, for really, after all, it doesn’t take much courage to go into danger if one is perfectly convinced that one will get out of it all right. Such a knowledge as this is equivalent to shot and steel-proof armour, and makes one feel very much as the dauntless knights of old must have felt when, cap-a-pie, they boldly and singly charged down upon an army of naked savages. It was only a matter of time and exertion how soon the enemy were despatched, and the champion could ride back to his lady’s bower triumphant and unhurt.

With the last few pounds of Ronald’s legacy they began their journey from Benares to Allahabad by boat, starting at early morning, before daybreak, on the 1st of June 1857, and reaching Allahabad on the 3d, by easy stages.

Here Mrs Bangles made her arrangements to begin her entertainment on the following night at the fortress, where the officers had provided them with quarters. She was to have a week’s run here in the little theatre which was set aside for strolling companies and private performances.

It was here that they heard, for the first time, about the revolt of the natives at Delhi, but, as yet, the mutiny had not assumed the alarming proportions which it was presently to take; therefore, at Allahabad the garrison were not too greatly alarmed, although discipline was a little stricter than usual. Still, the first night they had a good house, and when they counted up the proceeds, they considered that the agent had every cause to congratulate himself upon the success of his little company. Mrs Bangles had a champagne supper after the performance with some of the officers who had known her husband at Benares, after the boys had gone to bed, and felt that things were once more beginning to look coloured.