For what? For him? The
idea seemed absurd, and yet, as Nicholson felt himself being swept on,
it took stronger hold upon his mind and his faint hope of success
revived. He believed that, once face to face with the prince, he would
be able to check the headlong disaster which was bearing down upon
them all. They had been friends in a curious unacknowledged way. Nehal
Singh would listen to him. He would be made to understand that one
adventurer and one heartless woman do not make a nation; that the
injury done him was far from irreparable.
A low exclamation close at hand roused him from his rapid
considerations. He saw that the man who had hold of his horse's bridle
had turned and with one outstretched hand was pointing over the heads
of the crowd.
"Look, Sahib, look!"
Nicholson glanced in the direction indicated. They were passing the
site of the old Bazaar, now a black, scarred waste of machinery and
disembowelled earth over which brooded a death-like quiet. Nicholson
remembered vividly the day he had ridden there at Nehal Singh's side.
A breathless, eager humanity had worked and slaved beneath the
scorching sun, redoubling every effort as the fine commanding presence
of the young ruler appeared among them. Then the clank of busy
machinery had mingled with the shouted orders of the English
overseers, and Nehal Singh had turned to him with a grave pride and
happiness.
"See what your people have taught my people," he said.
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