Blue Lights: Hot Work in the Soudan Part 38

"If _you_ hadn't said it, I would have had some hope that the end was come!" said Molloy, as they put a rope round his neck and led him away.

"Good-bye, Miles," he added, looking over his shoulder; "if I never come back, an' you ever gets home again, give my kind regards to Miss Robinson--G.o.d bless her!"

Next moment the door closed, and Miles was left alone.

It is impossible to describe the state of mind in which our hero paced his cell during the next hour. The intense pity, mingled with anxiety and fierce indignation, that burned in his bosom were almost unbearable.

"Oh!" he thought, "if I were only once more free, for one moment, with a weapon in my hand, I'd--"

He wisely checked himself in the train of useless thought at this point.

Then he sat down on the floor, covered his face with his hands, and tried to pray, but could not. Starting up, he again paced wildly about the cell like a caged tiger. After what seemed to him an age he heard footsteps in the outer court. The door opened, and the sailor was thrust in. Staggering forward a step or two, he was on the point of falling when Miles caught him in his arms, and let him sink gently on the ground, and, sitting down beside him, laid his head upon his knee.

From the inflamed red mark which encircled the seaman's powerful neck, it was obvious enough that the cruel monsters had again put him to the tremendous mental agony of supposing that his last hour had come.

"Help me up, lad, and set my back agin the wall," he said, in a low voice.

As Miles complied, one or two tears that would not be repressed fell from his eyes on the sailor's cheek.

"You're a good fellow," said Molloy, looking up. "I thank the Lord for sendin' you to comfort me, and I _do_ need comfort a bit just now, d'ee know. There--I'm better a'ready, an' I'll be upside wi' them next time, for I feels, somehow, that I couldn't stand another turn. Poor Moses!

I do hope that the interpreter is the liar he looks, and that they haven't treated the poor fellow to this sort o' thing."

Even while he spoke, the door of the cell again opened and armed men entered.

"Ay, here you are," cried the sailor, rising quickly and attempting to draw himself up and show a bold front. "Come away an' welcome. I'm ready for 'ee."

But the men had not come for Molloy. They wanted Miles, over whom there came a sudden and dreadful feeling of horror, as he thought they were perhaps going to subject him to the same ordeal as his friend.

"Keep up heart, lad, and trust in the Lord," said the sailor, in an encouraging tone as they led our hero away.

The words were fitly spoken, and went far to restore to the poor youth the courage that for a moment had forsaken him. As he emerged into the bright light, which dazzled him after the darkness of his prison-house, he thought of the Sun of Righteousness, and of the dear mother who had sought so earnestly to lead him to G.o.d in his boyhood.

One thing that greatly encouraged him was the fact that no rope had been put round his neck, as had been done to Molloy, and he also observed that his guards did not treat him roughly. Moreover, they led him in quite a different direction from the open place where he well knew that criminals were executed. He glanced at the interpreter who marched beside him, and thought for a moment of asking him what might be his impending fate, but the man's look was so forbidding that he forbore to speak.

Presently they stopped before a door, which was opened by a negro slave, and the guards remained outside while Miles and the interpreter entered.

The court into which they were ushered was open to the sky, and contained a fountain in the centre, with boxes of flowers and shrubs around it. At the inner end of it stood a tall powerful Arab, leaning on a curved sword.

Miles saw at a glance that he was the same man whose life he had saved, and who had come so opportunely to the rescue of his friend Molloy. But the Arab gave him no sign of recognition. On the contrary, the glance which he bestowed on him was one of calm, stern indifference.

"Ask him," he said at once to the interpreter, "where are the Christian dogs who were captured with him?"

"Tell him," replied Miles, when this was translated, "that I know nothing about the fate of any of them except one."

"Which one is that?"

"The sailor," answered Miles.

"Where is he?"

"In the prison I have just left."

"And you know nothing about the others?"

"Nothing whatever."

The Arab seemed to ponder these replies for a few minutes. Then, turning to the interpreter, he spoke in a tone that seemed to Miles to imply the giving of some strict orders, after which, with a wave of his hand, and a majestic inclination of the head, he dismissed them.

Although there was little in the interview to afford encouragement, Miles nevertheless was rendered much more hopeful by it, all the more that he observed a distinct difference in the bearing of the interpreter towards him as they went out.

"Who is that?" he ventured to ask as he walked back to the prison.

"That is Mohammed, the Mahdi's cousin," answered the interpreter.

Miles was about to put some more questions when he was brought to a sudden stand, and rendered for the moment speechless by the sight of Moses Pyne--not bearing heavy burdens, or labouring in chains, as might have been expected, but standing in a shallow recess or niche in the wall of a house, busily engaged over a small brazier, cooking beans in oil, and selling the same to the pa.s.sers-by!

"What you see?" demanded the interpreter.

"I see an old friend and comrade. May I speak to him?" asked Miles, eagerly.

"You may," answered the interpreter.

The surprise and joy of Moses when his friend slapped him on the shoulder and saluted him by name is not easily described.

"I _am_ so glad to see you, old fellow!" he said, with sparkling eyes.

"I thought you must be dead, for I've tried so often to find out what had become of you. Have some beans and oil?"

He dipped a huge ladleful out of the pot, as if he were going to administer a dose on the spot.

"No, thank you, Moses, I'm a prisoner. These are my guards. I wonder they have allowed me even to exchange a word with you. Must be quick.

They told us you had been half-hanged till you were frightened to death."

"They told you lies, then. I've been very well treated, but what troubles me is I can't find out where any of our comrades have gone to."

"I can tell only of one. Molloy is alive. I wish I could say he's well. Of the others I'm as ignorant as yourself. But I've seen a friend who--"

At this point he was interrupted by the interpreter and told to move on, which he was fain to do with a cheery good-bye to Moses and a wave of the hand.

Arrived at the prison, he found that Molloy had been removed to a more comfortable room, into which he was also ushered, and there they were left alone together.

"D'you feel better now, my poor fellow?" asked Miles, when the door was shut.

"Better, bless you, yes! I feels far too well. They've given me a rare blow-out of beans an' oil since you were taken off to be hanged, and I feels so strong that the next turn off won't finish me! I could never have eaten 'em, thinkin' of you, but, d'ee know, I was quite sure, from the way they treated you as you went out, that it warn't to be hangin'

wi' you this time. An' when they putt me into this here room, an'

produced the beans an' oil, I began to feel quite easy in my mind about you. It was the man that brought your marchin' orders that told 'em to putt me here. D'ee know, lad, I can't help feelin' that a friend o'

some sort must have bin raised up to us."

"You're right, Jack, I have just seen the Arab whose life I saved, and who saved yours! It's very strange, too, that beans and oil should have been your fare to-day, for I have also seen Moses Pyne in the street, not half-an-hour since, cooking and selling beans and oil!"

"You don't mean that?"

"Indeed I do. I've spoken to him."