must speak to you alone, Sufder."
She went outside the tent with him.
"You have nothing to fear," he said. "You shall go back with us to Jooneer. I have a house there, and you can stay with my wife. Besides, there are many of your people still alive."
"But that is not all, Sufder. I was ayah to the major and his wife--whom your people have just killed, and whom I loved dearly--and in my charge is their child. He is but a few months old, and I must take him with me."
"It is impossible," Sufder replied. "No white man, woman, or child would be safe in the Deccan, at present."
"No one would see his face," the woman said. "I would wrap him up, and will give out that he is my own child. As soon as we get up the Ghauts I would stain his face and skin, and no one would know that he was white. If you will not let me do it, tell your men to cut me down. I should not care to live, if the child were gone as well as his father and mother. You cannot tell how kind they were to me. You would not have me ungrateful, would you, Sufder?"
"Well, well," the man said good naturedly, though somewhat impatiently, "do as you like; but if any harm comes of it, mind it is not my fault."
Thankful for the permission, Soyera hurried round to the back of the tent, picked up the child and wrapped it in her robe; and then when, after firing the place, the Mahrattas retired, she fell in behind them, and followed them in the toilsome climb up the mountains, keeping so far behind that none questioned her. Once or twice Sufder dropped back to speak to her.
"It is a foolish trick of yours," he said, "and I fear that trouble will come of it."
"I don't see why it should," she replied. "The child will come to speak Mahratta and, when he is stained, none will guess that he is English. In time, I may be able to restore him to his own people."
The other shook his head.
"That is not likely," he said, "for before many weeks, we shall have driven them into the sea."
"Then he must remain a Mahratta," she said, "until he is able to make his way to join the English in Madras or Calcutta."
"You are an obstinate woman, and always have been so; else you would not have left your people to go to be servant among the whites. However, I will do what I can for you, for the sake of my mother's sister and of our kinship."
On the way up the hills Soyera stopped, several times, to pick berries. When they halted she went aside and pounded them, and then boiled them in some water in a lota--a copper vessel--Sufder lent her for the purpose, and dyed the child's head and body with it, producing a colour corresponding to her own.
The party, which was composed of men from several towns and villages, broke up the next morning.
"Have you money?" Sufder asked her, as she was about to start alone on her journey.
"Yes; my savings were all lodged for me, by Major Lindsay, with some merchants at Bombay; but I have twenty rupees sewn up in my garments."
"As to your savings, Soyera, you are not likely to see them again, for we shall make a clean sweep of Bombay. However, twenty rupees will be useful to you, and would keep you for three or four months, if you needed but, as you are going to my wife, you will not want them.
"Take this dagger. When you show it to her, she will know that you come from me; but mind, she is, like most women, given to gossip; therefore I warn you not to let her into the secret of this child's birth, for if you did so, half the town would know it in the course of a day or two.
"Now, I must go back with my men to join a party who are on their way to fight the English. I should have gone there direct, but met the others starting on this marauding expedition, which was so much to the taste of my men that I could not restrain them from joining. I shall see you at Jooneer, as soon as matters are finished with the English; then I shall, after staying a few days there, rejoin Scindia, in whose service I am."
Soyera started on her way. At the villages through which she passed, she was questioned as to where she came from; and replied that she had been living down near Bombay but, now that the English were going to fight the Mahrattas, she was coming home, having lost her husband a few months before.
As the road to Jooneer diverged widely from that to Poona, she was asked no questions about the war. All were confident that the defeat of the English was certain, now that Scindia and Holkar and the government of the Peishwa had laid aside their mutual jealousies, and had joined for the purpose of crushing the whites.
On arriving, after two days' journey, at Jooneer, she went to the address that Sufder had given her; but was coldly received by his wife.
"As it is Sufder's order, of course I must take you in," she said, "but when he returns, I shall tell him that I do not want another woman and child in the house. Why do you not go to your own people? As you are Sufder's cousin, you must be the sister of Ramdass. Why should you not go to him?"
"I will gladly do so, if you will tell me where he lives."
"He has a small farm. You must have passed it, as you came along. It is about a mile from here."
"I will go to him at once," Soyera said.
"No, no," the woman exclaimed; "that will never do. You must stop a day or two here. Sufder would be angry, indeed, were he to find that you did not remain here; and would blame me for it. I should be willing enough for you to stay a week, or a month; that is a different thing from becoming an inmate of the house."
"I will wait till tomorrow, for I have made a long two days' journey from the top of the Ghauts and, as I am not accustomed to walking, my feet are sore. In the morning I will go and see my brother. I did not so much as know that he was alive. I feel sure he will take me in, willingly; for he is but two years older than myself, and was always kind to me."
Accordingly the next morning she retraced her steps, and had no difficulty in finding the farm of Ramdass. Choosing the time when he would be likely to be in for his dinner, Soyera walked up to the door of the house, which was standing open.
As she stood there, hesitating, Ramdass came out. He was a man of some forty years of age, with a pleasant and kindly face. He looked at her enquiringly.
"Do you not know me, Ramdass?" she asked.
"Why, 'tis Soyera!" he exclaimed. "And so you have come back, after all these years--thirteen, is it not, since you went away?
"Welcome back, little sister!" and he raised his voice, and called, "Anundee!"
A young woman, two or three and twenty years of age, came to the door.
"Wife," he said, "this is my sister Soyera, of whom you have often heard me speak.
"Soyera, this is my wife. We have been married six years; but come in, and let us talk things over.
"You have come home for good, I hope," he said. "So you too have married and, as you come alone with your child, have, I suppose, had the misfortune to lose your husband?"
"Yes, I was alone in the world, and came hither not knowing whether you were alive or dead; but feeling sure of a welcome, if I found you."
"And you
