By degrees I had an opportunity of seeing
all her features. She was most beautiful, but
had evidently passed the meridian of her
charms. She could not have been less than
twenty-four years of age. On the forefinger
of her left hand she wore a ring of English
manufacture, in which was set a red cornelian,
whereon was engraved a crest—a stag's
head.

I took her hand in mine, and said, "Where
did you get this?" pointing to the ring.

She smiled and sighed, and then answered,
"Jee, (sir) it belonged to an Ameer (a great
man)."

"Where is he?"

"Never mind."

"Do you expect to see him soon?"

"No—never."

"Is he old?"

"No. Not older than yourself. How the
heaven is speaking!"

"Let me see you to your home."

"No. I will go alone."

"When do you intend to go?"

"When you have left me."

"You are very unkind thus to repulse my
civility."

"It may be so. But my heart's blood is
curdled."

I bade her farewell; and through the
storm, which still raged, I went home and
won my wager.

I could not rest that night. The beautiful
face of the native woman haunted me. In
vain I tried to sleep, and at last I arose from
my bed, and joined a card-party, in the
hope that the excitement of gambling would
banish her from my brain. But to no purpose.
I knew not what I was playing, and ere long
I left off in disgust.

Almost every one who visits the Hills keeps
a servant called a tindal. His duty is to look
after the men who carry your janpan, to go
errands, to keep up the fire, and to accompany
you with a lantern when you go out after dark.
These tindals, like the couriers on the Continent,
are a peculiar race; and, generally speaking,
are a very sharp, active, and courageous
people. I summoned my tindal, and
interrogated him about the native lady who had
caused so much sensation in Mussoorie. The
only information he could afford me was that
she had come from a village near Hurdwar;
that she was rich, possessed of the most costly
jewels, kept a number of servants, moved
about in great state on the plains, and for
all he knew, she might be the wife or slave
of some Rajah.

Could she, I wondered, be the famous
Ranee Chunda, the mother of Dulleep Singh,
and the wife of Runjeet? The woman who,
disguised as a soldier, had escaped from the
fort of Chunar, where she had been
imprisoned for disturbing, by her plots, the
imagination of Sir Frederick Currie, when he was
Resident at Lahore? The woman I had seen
and spoken to, "answered to the description"
of the Ranee, in every respect, excepting the
eyes. Dulleep Singh was living at Mussoorie,
and he not unfrequently rode upon the Mall.
Ranee Chunda had a satirical tongue, and
a peculiarly sweet-toned, but shrill voice;
and she had remarkably beautiful feet:
and so had this woman. Ranee Chunda had
courage which was superhuman: so had this
woman. Ranee Chunda had a child—an
only child: so had this woman.

I asked the tindal where the lady lived.
He replied that she occupied a small house
near the bazaar, not very far from my own
abode. "She is in great grief," the tindal
yawned, "about something or other."

"Endeavour to find out the cause of
her misfortunes," said I, "and you shall be
rewarded according to your success."

Next day the tindal reported to me that
I was not the only sahib who was deeply
interested in the native lady's affairs; that
many wished to make her acquaintance, and
had sent their tindals to talk to her; but
that she had firmly and laconically dismissed
them all, just as she had dismissed him.
"Tell your master that the sufferings of an
object of pity, such as I am, ought not to be
aggravated by the insulting persecution of
gay and light-hearted men."

The day after the storm brought forth the
loveliest afternoon that can be imagined. The
sun shone out brightly, the clouds were lifted
from the Dhoon, and the vast panorama
resembled what we read of in some fairy tale.
All Mussoorie and Landour turned out. The
Mall was so crowded, that it was difficult to
thread one's way through the throng.

Was the lady at the rock?—Yes; there
she stood as usual, watching those who
passed. The Maharajah with his suite
appeared. I was convinced that the woman
was the Maharajah's mother; but I did not
breathe my suspicions, lest I might cause
her to be arrested. When it became dusk,
and the visitors were taking their departure,
I again approached the lady, and made
my "salaam," in that respectful phrase
which is always adopted when addressing
a native woman of rank. She at once
recognised me as the person who had spoken
to her during the storm on the previous
afternoon, for she alluded to its fury, and
said she had taken a wrong road, had lost
her way, after I had left her, and did not
reach home till nearly midnight. She
concluded her little speech with a hope that
I had been more fortunate.

"You should have allowed me to escort
you," said I. "I would have helped to carry
your load of sorrow."

She looked at me, and suddenly and
abruptly said: "Your name is Longford."

"You are right," said I.

"About three or four years ago, you stayed
for several days with a friend in a tent near
Deobund? You were on your way to these
mountains?"