Chapter XX

_BIPIN TAKES A PRISONER_

When the first messenger from Kunch rode into Kalpi, as if a thousand demons were in pursuit, shouting wildly that the day was lost; the worthy secretary, Bipin Dat, bitterly reproached himself for not having, at all hazards, continued his journey to the abode of his family. "_Ah, hae, hae_"! he groaned, "what God is unappeased by which a peaceful man is continually involved in these affairs of bloodshed. This all comes of not consulting an astrologer before setting out from Jhansi. He might have so arranged matters with the heavens, that a whirlwind would have scattered the Foreigners. Unfortunate is it, that the great Rani sets so little faith in the all powerful astrologers."

He quickly gathered a few trinkets together, carefully secreted them in the folds of his turban, and was among the earliest to plunge into the jungle.

There, for several days he wandered about in fear of wild beasts, of robbers, and of evil spirits. In what direction his footsteps were bent, he had but a faint idea; his sole aim being to place between himself and the scene of hostilities the greatest possible distance. An occasional hut afforded him a sleeping place, where, in the universal charity displayed to travellers, he was provided gratuitously with such meagre fare as could be offered.

How far he had wandered, Bipin could make no computation. The people of the jungle knew only of their immediate neighborhood. It seemed to him he must have travelled a great distance. In reality, like many under similar circumstances, he had been rambling in circles. At the end of two weeks he was still within thirty miles of the place he was eager to view from a distance of two hundred.

The day's tramp had been more than usually a toilsome one for Bipin. He had taken a narrow path that seemed to wander capriciously amid tangled underbrush with no particular destination. The sun had set without a village or habitation in sight, and the mysterious silence of the jungle, its ominous shadows, its majestic gloom, filled his soul with dread. He was reluctant to go forward, afraid to remain on the spot, and hesitated to turn back. His terrified fancy beheld the eyes of a panther or a tiger glaring out at him from behind every bush. The breaking of a twig, the sound of his own footsteps startled him nearly out of his senses. Thrice that day had a fox crossed his path, the worst possible omen. He beat his breast in his wretchedness. In turn, his fat cheeks and brow became flushed, and chill as the damp slab of a tomb.

"Oh, what a fool have I been," he groaned, "to mix my life up in the intrigues and ambitions of a court. How much better had I only remained in my humble condition with my good uncles. I would never have come to this unlucky pass."

Before him the path made a bend. Through the branches he thought he discerned a flickering light. It might come from a hut, or, he shivered, from the watch fire of a detachment of the Foreigners. In the morning he had heard that parties of them were beating the jungle for fugitives.

But in his deplorable situation, he reasoned, that it would be better to fall into their hands with the chance of being able to prove his innocence of rebellion, than remain where he was, a prey to some malign influence that, for all he knew to the contrary, might change him into a bat. He gathered his tattered garments about him, and moved cautiously toward the light. He had not taken many steps when a hand stretched out from the darkness laid a firm grasp upon his shoulder. At the same moment a voice in his own language gruffly called on him to halt.

"Who art thou, and whitherward"?

Bipin cast his arms above his head despairingly. His challenger might be a robber, or the Native sentry of a Foreign encampment.

"But a poor traveller--a devotee on his way to the holy river," he cried timorously, "a man of peace seeking a shelter for the night."

It was a fortunate inspiration that prompted him to pose as a pilgrim to the bank of the holy Ganges. The vilest malefactor would respect the sanctity of his person undergoing such a pious obligation. Had the idea only occurred to him before, it would have saved many qualms of nervous emotion. The accursed fox would have fled precipitately at the cry of "_Ganga! Ganga_"!

To Bipin's relief his captor replied in friendly accents:

"Why, surely, thy voice is not unknown to my ears. Art thou not one of the Rani of Jhansi's attendants"?

Bipin was about to vow by all his Gods that so far from being in any sympathy with the Native army, he detested their actions and loved the Foreigners as his uncles. For a moment he was tempted to declare, that never in his life had he beheld the face of the great Princess, and reassert more firmly his sacred mission; when it occurred to him that he might have stumbled upon a detachment of the fleeing Native army. He promptly decided to make sure of this point before committing himself to a confounding statement.

"And thy voice, too, I seem to know," he returned. "Art thou not also one of her followers"?

"A servant of the valiant Rani, herself," came the terse response.

"Blessed Devi," cried Bipin joyfully. "Am I not her worthy secretary, Bipin Dat. Tell me, good fellow, where I may discover her Highness, for whom I have been vainly searching in the jungle these many days past."

"That is easily done, holy pilgrim," replied the other, with a laugh, at the secretary's sudden change of garment. "She is encamped here with a body of her Valaitis, in retreat from Kalpi. Come, I will take thee to her presence."

The sentry led Bipin a short distance to an open space in which two or three hundred Valaitis were resting with their horses tethered at hand. Near a small camp fire the Rani was seated gazing pensively into the smouldering embers, kept purposely from rising into a blaze for fear of disclosing her place of concealment. She did not notice Bipin's approach until he had prostrated himself at her feet. Then she turned her eyes upon him without speaking.

"Great Rani," he at last exclaimed. "Behold thy worthy servant, Bipin Dat."

"Aye," she replied gravely but not unkindly. "Thou art a strange creature, appearing where least expected. Better would it have been for thee, good Bipin, if thou hadst taken another road than that which led to the Rani's camp. I would urge thee to seek speedily thy home, for with us henceforth there will be little use for thy pen."

A note of sadness in her voice appealed to a sympathetic chord even in the timorous nature of her secretary. It reproached him with cowardice and infidelity to his beautiful, heroic mistress.

"Lovely Rani," he cried penitently. "I vow hereafter I will never leave thy side, come good or evil fortune."

"Bipin," she replied with lighter spirit. "Though the present hour is dark enough, it may yet be that those who follow me shall bask in the brightest sunshine. If thou art determined to be among them, thou hadst better seek thy rest, for by daybreak we must be far hence."

A prudent man, the worthy secretary took a careful survey of the camp before deciding on his sleeping place. Not that there was much choice as regards a comfortable position. It was the bare ground for both the Rani and her attendants; but in his turban there were still hidden certain articles of value that might tempt the cupidity of the Valaiti troopers. If in guarding his sleep they despoiled him of his remaining possessions, he reasoned, that he would have paid overmuch for a night's security.

In this dilemma, his eyes chanced to observe the well spreading branches of a tree, under which the Rani had taken up a reclining position. They suggested to him a safe retreat. With some difficulty he climbed the lower trunk and discovered a spot that nature might have constructed to suit his present need. He curled himself up where two stout limbs branched off into space, and amid the shelter of the foliage was soon fast asleep.

The silence of midnight descended on the camp, the fire died low, an occasional grunt from the throat of a heavy sleeping trooper on the ground, and a sonorous gurgle from that of the secretary aloft, were the only noises distinguishable to the sentries.

Presently the worthy secretary began to dream of the peaceful abode of his uncles. It was a soothing picture to his troubled mind, but unfortunately, like the reality of life, it was not destined to last long without a counterpart of woe. In that absurdly impossible procedure of dreams, the accursed barber of Jhansi appeared on the scene, attired for all the world like a Foreign soldier--in fact, a horrible nightmare, dual personality, endeavoring to shave off Bipin's nose and ears with a two handed sword of immense proportions. In his sleep the secretary struggled and gasped, for it seemed that the barber-soldier had seized him by the throat and was endeavoring to choke the breath out of his lungs. Indeed, the choking sensation became so terribly realistic, that he awoke with a wail of anguish to find that it was no dream at all, but that some huge, black monster, manlike so far as he could discern its face in the darkness, had grasped him round the neck, probably with the object of murdering him for the treasures concealed in his turban.

"Thieves! Murder! The Foreigners"! shouted Bipin, as loudly as the little wind left in his chest would permit. He entwined his legs and arms about a furry body and commenced a struggle for his life.

At Bipin's cry of "The Foreigners," the camp was instantly aroused. Horses neighed and pawed the earth, the troopers sprang to their feet, the sentries rushed in and stood gazing up into the tree from which there came a medley of strange noises. From the tumult, and the shower of twigs and leaves that fell upon their upturned faces, it was evident a desperate conflict was proceeding.

"The Foreigners! Thieves! The accursed Foreigners. To the rescue, brave Rani; oh! to the rescue, good comrades," the voice of Bipin saluted their astonished ears. Then came screams and chattering in an unknown tongue, with a fiercer renewal of the unseen combat.

The Rani had been awakened with the rest. She was about to order some of the men to climb up into the tree and discover the nature of the disturbance, when, with a crashing of branches, a struggling black mass fell into their midst.

The troopers started back and then returned to separate the combatants that still writhed and fought upon the ground, when the form of Bipin struggled to his feet. He grasped a hairy baboon by the neck, and held him a captive before the Rani.

"Ah, what a ruffian," he panted, "to attempt to strangle me in my sleep. Without doubt he must embody the spirit of some wicked enemy."

In spite of her overshadowing misfortune, the Rani could not restrain a laugh at the humor of the situation.

"Thou art a brave fellow," she exclaimed, "and hast earned thy right to fight with a lance instead of a pen. Some day, perchance, thou wilt command a troop."

"Truly," reflected Bipin, "whether I like it or no, Fate will have it that I am to be mixed up continually in some accursed broil. If not with men, alas! it seems with the animals. Such is the inscrutable will of God."

The troopers' voices echoed the Rani's sally with laughter. They drove the baboon from the camp, peace was restored, slumber once more descended upon their heads. Before daybreak the party were speeding in a south-westerly direction toward a rendezvous of the Native chiefs at Gopalpur.