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Updated: May 27, 2025
He guessed that but for Cunningham that number of Rangars would never have agreed on a given plan. He knew that it was he, and not Cunningham or Alwa or Rosemary McClean, who had broken faith. He had broken it in thought, and word, and action. And he had lost his prospect of a throne. So he came on like a man who has nothing to gain by considering his safety. He came like a real man at last.
"It was she who made the whole thing possible, sir." "The very deuce it was!" It began to be evident that Byng was not a ladies' man! "This is Mr. McClean, sir Rosemary's father. He helped her put the whole scheme through." Byng nodded to the missionary and looked back at Rosemary McClean then from her to Cunningham again. "Hu-rrrr-umph! Christian names already! More 'gratulations, eh?"
Cunningham held up a lantern, and looked straight at Duncan McClean. The missionary had held his daughter's hand while she recounted what had happened in the cell. Whatever he may have thought, he had uttered no word of remonstrance. "Of course, we go to Howrah ahead of you," he answered to Cunningham's unspoken question. Cunningham held out his right hand, and the missionary shook it.
At sunset he sent the squire to Miss McClean for the letters he had promised to deliver; and at one hour after sunset, when the heat of the earth had begun to rise and throw back a hot blast to the darkened sky and the little eddies of luke-warm surface wind made movement for horse and man less like a fight with scorching death, he rode off, with his new servant, on the two horses left to him of the five with which he came.
Therefore, he decided that under no circumstances should Rosemary McClean be treated cavalierly until the Rangars were out of the way and he could pose as her protector if need be. He would be able to prove that Rosemary and her father had come to him of their own free will. He would say that they had asked him for protection from the Rangars.
This might be danger and it might not be; so he watched. Cunningham was conscious of the sudden interruption of a train of thought, but he was not conscious of deliberate interference. "That very young man is an old man," said Duncan McClean, wiping his spectacles as he walked beside his daughter to the deep veranda where their chairs were side by side. "He is a grown man.
Jaimihr stood upright as four men closed in on him, and looked straight in the eyes of every one in turn. Rosemary McClean stepped back, to hide herself behind Cunningham's broad shoulders, but Jaimihr saw her and his proud smile broadened to a laugh of sheer amusement. He let his captors wait for him while he stared straight at her, sparing her no fragment of embarrassment.
McClean, and a purdah for your daughter you'll travel as a Hindoo merchant and his wife. If you get stopped, say very little, but show this." He produced the letter written once by Maharajah Howrah to the Alwa-sahib and sent by galloper with the present of a horse. It was signed, and at the bottom of it was the huge red royal seal.
Here we have few coherent groups of books, unless we reckon as such a certain number of volumes from the Cistercian Abbey of Morimund in North Italy, acquired singly, perhaps, by Mr. McClean from Hoepli of Milan. In both these cases examples of illumination and calligraphy have been primary objects in the collectors' eyes, and that is the ruling passion with most of those who buy MSS. nowadays.
Jaimihr and no one but a wizard could have told how he had managed to get to where he was unobserved was riding as a man rides at a tent-peg, crouching low, full-pelt for Rosemary McClean! Cunningham's spurs went home before the word was out of Mahommed Gunga's mouth, and Mahommed Gunga raced behind him; but Jaimihr had the start of them.
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