It seemed
to him that they had deterred his progress for some unknown purpose,
and the thought of those he had left behind caused him profound
uneasiness. Native treachery was proverbial, and no doubt Nehal Singh
felt himself justified in any conduct that seemed wise to him. In any
case, there was no return. The crowd in front of Nicholson sank back
like a receding tide as he rode through the open gates and then closed
in behind, following in one dense stream as he proceeded slowly up the
splendid avenue. He felt now that he was in the hands of destiny.
Through the trees he caught sight of the palace steps where Nehal
Singh had stood the night before. No living soul moved. The whole
world seemed to have concentrated itself behind him, a grim and silent
force which was sweeping him onward--to what end he could not tell.
Suddenly the native who still held his horse's bridle lifted his hand
as he had done before and pointed ahead.
"Look, Sahib!" he cried. "Look!"
Nicholson made no sign. He retained his easy attitude, one hand
loosely holding the reins, the other with the riding-whip resting
negligently on his hip. There was no change in his bronzed face: his
eyes took in the scene which an abrupt turn in the road revealed to
him with a steadfast calm, though his pulses had begun to beat
furiously. It was as though a painter with two strokes of a mighty
brush had smeared the square before the temple with a great moving
stain.
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