“Georgi—­you here!” he exclaimed with surprise.  “And in this dress?”

He had indeed reason to be surprised, for he had not again seen the handsome, blonde page, to whom he chiefly owed his life, since their meeting on the way to the place of execution.

When on the evening of that for him so eventful day he asked Prince Tchajawadse about Georgi he had received only a short, evasive reply, and the Prince’s knitted brows showed such evident anger that he well perceived that something must have taken place between them, and so it appeared to him to be best to him not to mention again the name of the Circassian girl.

When the detachment started he had in vain looked for the page who had hitherto been inseparable from “his master,” and only the anxiety for Edith, which was so much nearer his heart, was the cause that he had not thought much about the inexplicable disappearance of the disguised girl.

He had certainly least of all expected to find her here, so far from the Russian headquarters, and in woman’s dress to boot.  But the Circassian did not seem inclined to give him detailed information.

“I have begged you to come out to see me, sir,” she said, “because I did not want the Prince to see me.  I met your Indian servant.  And he told me about the English lady whom the Maharajah of Chanidigot has carried off from you.”

“He did not carry her off from me, Georgi, for I have no claim upon her.  She only placed herself under my protection, and therefore it is my duty to do all that I can to set her free.”

The girl looked at him, and there was a glance as of suppressed passion in her beautiful eyes.

“Why do you not speak the truth, sir?  Say that you love her!  Tell me that you love her and I will bring her back to you—­and this very evening.”

“You, Georgi, how in all the world will you be able to manage that?  Do you know then where the lady is to be found?”

“I know it from your servant, Morar Gopal.  She is there, in that tent of the Maharajah of Chanidigot, before whose door the two Indians are standing sentry.  Take care and do not attempt to force your way in, for the sentries would cut you to pieces before allowing you to put a foot in the tent.”

“It may be that you are right,” said Heideck, whose breast was now filled with a blissful feeling at having at last learned with certainty that the adored woman was close by.  “But how shall you be able to get to her?”

“I am a woman, and I know how one must treat these miserable Indian rogues; the Maharajah of Chanidigot is ill, and in his pain he has something else to think of than of the joys of love.  You must make use of this favourable moment, sir! and in this very night whatever is to happen must happen.”

“Certainly! every minute lost means perhaps a terrible danger to Mrs. Irwin.  But if you have a plan for saving her please tell me—­”