“We have been betrayed,” said Ramabai.  “I know not how.”

“You were followed.  A moment,” said Bruce, turning to the officer.  “I have a servant by the name of Rao.  I believe he acted as bearer to the young lady at the palace.  What has become of him?”

The officer smiled and shook his head.

“Rao is a prisoner, then,” thought the young man.  “That black scoundrel Umballa is at least thorough.”  Aloud he said:  “We shall go at once to your house, Ramabai.”

And all through the night they planned and planned, but not knowing where the first ordeal was to take place, nor the hour, they found themselves going round in a circle, getting nowhere.  To a man of action like Bruce it was maddening.  He walked out of the house into the garden and back again at least a dozen times, always to find Ramabai with his head held despairingly in his hands.  Another time Bruce opened the door to the street; two troopers squatted on each side of the threshold.  Umballa was in earnest.  The rear gate was also guarded.  How to get Ramabai out, that was the problem.

He slept a little before dawn, and was aroused by voices below.  He listened.

“I am Jawahir Lal, the water carrier.  Each day at dawn I water the garden of Ramabai to pay a debt.”

Bruce looked toward Ramabai, who slept the sleep of the profoundly wearied.  A bheestee, perhaps a messenger.

“Go around to the rear gate, which can be opened,” said the trooper.

Bruce went to the window overlooking the garden.  He saw the water carrier enter through the bamboo gate, heard the water slosh about jerkily as the bheestee emptied his goatskin.  He watched the man curiously; saw him drop the skin and tiptoe toward the house, glance to right and left alertly.  Then he disappeared.  Presently at the head of the stairs Bruce heard a whisper—­“Ramabai!”

“Who is it?” Bruce whispered in the dialect.

“Ahmed.”

Ahmed.  Who was Ahmed?

Bruce shook Ramabai.  “Ahmed is here.  Who is he?” he asked softly.

“Ahmed?” drowsily.  Then, wide awake enough:  “Ahmed?  He was Hare Sahib’s head animal man.  Where is he?”

“Hush!  Not so loud.  Come up, Ahmed; I am Bruce.  Let us speak in English.”

“Good!” Ahmed came into the chamber.  “To see Bruce Sahib is good.  To-morrow my master’s daughter is to be carried into the jungle.  The Mem-sahib is to be tied inside a tiger trap, bait for the cat.  That is the first ordeal.”

“Shaitan!” murmured Ramabai.

“Go on, Ahmed.”

“The cage will be set near the old peepul tree, not far from the south gate.  Now, you, Sahib, and you, Ramabai, must hide somewhere near.  It is the law that if she escapes the ordeal from unexpected sources she is free, at least till the second ordeal.  I know not what that is at present or when it is to take place.  The troops will be there, and the populace, the council, the priest and Umballa.  I shall have two swift camels near the clump of bamboo.  I may not be there, but some one will.  She must be hurried off before the confusion dies away.  Must, Sahib.  There must be no second ordeal.”