“Ask of me what you like—­except to leave you again.  What shall I do in Ambala without you?  I have suffered so unutterably since you were carried off before my eyes at Anar Kali, that I will die a thousand times rather than again expose myself to the torture of such uncertainty.”

A noise behind him made Heideck turn his head.  He saw the curtain before the door of the tent slightly lifted, and that it was Morar Gopal who had attempted to draw his attention by coughing discreetly.

He called to the loyal fellow to come in, and thanked him, not condescendingly, as a master recognises the cleverness of his servant, but as one friend thanks another.

The Hindu’s features showed how delighted he was by the kindness of his idolised master, although there was no alteration in his humble and modest demeanour even for a moment.  As respectful as ever, he said:  “I bring good news, sahib.  One of the Maharajah’s retinue, whose tongue I loosened with some of your rupees, has told me that the Maharajah of Sabathu is going to give the Russians forty horsemen to show them the best roads to Simla.  The country here is under his rule, and his people know every inch of ground to the top of the mountains.  If the lady joins these horsemen to-morrow in the dress of a rajah, she will be sure to get away from here unmolested.”

The excellence and practicability of this plan was obvious, and Heideck again recognised what a treasure a lucky accident had bestowed upon him in the shape of this Indian boy.  Edith also agreed, since she saw how joyfully Heideck welcomed the proposal, although the prospect of being obliged to show herself in broad daylight before everybody in man’s dress was painful to her feelings as a woman.

She asked Morar Gopal whether he had heard anything of Georgi in the meantime.  He nodded assent.

“I was talking to her half an hour ago.  She had escaped from the women’s tent and was on the point of leaving the camp.”

“What?” cried Heideck.  “Where in the world did she intend to go?”

“I don’t know, sahib.  She was very sad, but when I asked her to accompany me to the sahib, she said she did not want to see him and the lady again; she sent her respects to the sahib, and begged him to remember his promise that he would say nothing to Prince Tchajawadse of her having been here.”

Heideck and Edith exchanged a significant look.  This singular girl’s behaviour set them riddles which for the moment they were unable to solve.  But it was only natural and human that in their own affairs they very soon forgot the Circassian.

Edith had to consent to Heideck leaving his tent at her disposal for the rest of the night, while he himself spent the few hours before daybreak at one of the bivouac fires.  But Morar Gopal was to take up his quarters before the entrance to the tent, and Heideck felt confident that he could not entrust his valuable treasure to a more loyal keeper.