The Moonstone Page #2

								


My cousin and I were separated at the outset. I never saw him when we
forded the river; when we planted the English flag in the first breach;
when we crossed the ditch beyond; and, fighting every inch of our way,
entered the town. It was only at dusk, when the place was ours, and
after General Baird himself had found the dead body of Tippoo under a
heap of the slain, that Herncastle and I met.

We were each attached to a party sent out by the general’s orders to
prevent the plunder and confusion which followed our conquest. The
camp-followers committed deplorable excesses; and, worse still, the
soldiers found their way, by a guarded door, into the treasury of the
Palace, and loaded themselves with gold and jewels. It was in the court
outside the treasury that my cousin and I met, to enforce the laws of
discipline on our own soldiers. Herncastle’s fiery temper had been, as
I could plainly see, exasperated to a kind of frenzy by the terrible
slaughter through which we had passed. He was very unfit, in my
opinion, to perform the duty that had been entrusted to him.

There was riot and confusion enough in the treasury, but no violence
that I saw. The men (if I may use such an expression) disgraced
themselves good-humouredly. All sorts of rough jests and catchwords
were bandied about among them; and the story of the Diamond turned up
again unexpectedly, in the form of a mischievous joke. “Who’s got the
Moonstone?” was the rallying cry which perpetually caused the
plundering, as soon as it was stopped in one place, to break out in
another. While I was still vainly trying to establish order, I heard a
frightful yelling on the other side of the courtyard, and at once ran
towards the cries, in dread of finding some new outbreak of the pillage
in that direction.

I got to an open door, and saw the bodies of two Indians (by their
dress, as I guessed, officers of the palace) lying across the entrance,
dead.

A cry inside hurried me into a room, which appeared to serve as an
armoury. A third Indian, mortally wounded, was sinking at the feet of a
man whose back was towards me. The man turned at the instant when I
came in, and I saw John Herncastle, with a torch in one hand, and a
dagger dripping with blood in the other. A stone, set like a pommel, in
the end of the dagger’s handle, flashed in the torchlight, as he turned
on me, like a gleam of fire. The dying Indian sank to his knees,
pointed to the dagger in Herncastle’s hand, and said, in his native
language—“The Moonstone will have its vengeance yet on you and yours!”
He spoke those words, and fell dead on the floor.

Before I could stir in the matter, the men who had followed me across
the courtyard crowded in. My cousin rushed to meet them, like a madman.
“Clear the room!” he shouted to me, “and set a guard on the door!” The
men fell back as he threw himself on them with his torch and his
dagger. I put two sentinels of my own company, on whom I could rely, to
keep the door. Through the remainder of the night, I saw no more of my
								Rate this book:
5.0 / 1 vote