CHAPTER IV.

"MEET AND LEAVE AGAIN."

"So on the sea of life, Alas!

Man nears man, meets and leaves again."

§ 1.

It had come. Ross-Ellison had proved a true prophet (and was to prove

himself a true soldier and commander of men).

Possibly the most remarkable thing about it was the quickness and

quietness, the naturalness and easiness with which it had come. A week

or two of newspaper forecast and fear, a week or two of recrimination

and feverish preparation, an ultimatum--England at war. The navy

mobilized, the army mobilizing, auxiliaries warned to be in readiness,

overseas battalions, batteries and squadrons recalled, or

re-distributed, reverses and "regrettable incidents,"--and outlying

parts of India (her native troops massed in the North or doing

garrison-duty overseas) an archipelago of safety-islands in a sea of

danger; Border parts of India for a time dependent upon their various

volunteer battalions for the maintenance, over certain areas, of their

civil governance, their political organization and public services.

In Gungapur, as in a few other Border cities, the lives of the European

women, children and men, the safety of property, and the continuance of

the local civil government depended for a little while upon the local

volunteer corps.

Gungapur, whose history became an epitome of that of certain other

isolated cities, was for a few short weeks an intermittently besieged

garrison, a mark for wandering predatory bands composed of _budmashes_

outlaws, escaped convicts, deserters, and huge mobs drawn from that

enormous body of men who live on the margin of respectability, peaceful

cultivator today, bloodthirsty dacoit to-morrow, wielders of the spade

and mattock or of the _lathi_ and _tulwar_[63] according to season,

circumstance, and the power of the Government; recruits for a mighty

army, given the leader and the opportunity--the hour of a Government's

danger.

[63] Quarter-staff and sword.

As had been pointed out, time after time, in the happy and

happy-go-lucky past, the practical civilian seditionist and active

civilian rebel is more fortunately situated in India than is his foreign

brother, in that his army exists ready to hand, all round him, in the

thousands of the desperately poor, devoid of the "respectability" that

accompanies property, thousands with nothing to lose and high hopes of

much to gain, heaven-sent material for the agitator.

Thanks to the energy of Colonel John Robin Ross-Ellison, his unusual

organizing ability, his personality, military genius and fore-knowledge

of what was coming, Gungapur suffered less than might have been expected

in view of its position on the edge of a Border State of

always-doubtful friendliness, its large mill-hand element, and the

poverty and turbulence of its general population.

The sudden departure of the troops was the sign for the commencement of

a state of insecurity and anxiety which quickly merged into one of

danger and fear, soon to be replaced by a state of war.

From the moment that it was known for certain that the garrison would be

withdrawn, Colonel Ross-Ellison commenced to put into practice his

projected plans and arrangements. On the day that Mr. Dearman's coolies

(after impassioned harangues by a blind Mussulman fanatic known as

Ibrahim the Weeper, a faquir who had recently come over the Border to

Gungapur and attained great influence; and by a Hindu professional

agitator who had obtained a post at the mills in the guise of a harmless

clerk) commenced rioting, beat Mr. Dearman to death with crowbars,

picks, and shovels, murdered all the European and Eurasian employees,

looted all that was worth stealing, and, after having set fire to the

mills, invaded the Cantonment quarter, burning, murdering,

destroying,--Colonel Ross-Ellison called out his corps, declared martial

law, and took charge of the situation, the civil authorities being dead

or cut off in the "districts".

The place which he had marked out for his citadel in time of trouble was

the empty Military Prison, surrounded by a lofty wall provided with an

unassailable water-supply, furnished with cook-houses, infirmary,

work-shop, and containing a number of detached bungalows (for officials)

in addition to the long lines of detention barracks.

As soon as his men had assembled at Headquarters he marched to the

place and commenced to put it in a state of defence and preparation for

a siege.

While Captain Malet-Marsac and Captain John Bruce (of the Gungapur

Engineering College) slaved at carrying out his orders in the Prison,

other officers, with picked parties of European Volunteers, went out to

bring in fugitives, to commandeer the contents of provision and grain

shops, to drive in cattle, to seize cooks, sweepers and other servants,

to shoot rioters and looters in the Cantonment area, to search for

wounded and hidden victims of the riot, to bury corpses, extinguish

fires, penetrate to European bungalows in the city and in outlying

places, to publish abroad that the Military Prison was a safe refuge, to

seize and empty ammunition shops and toddy shops, to mount guards at the

railway-station, telegraph office, the banks, the gate-house of the

great Jail, the Treasury and the Kutcherry,[64] and generally, to use

their common sense and their rifles as the situation demanded.

[64] Collector's Court and Office.

Day by day external operation became more restricted as the mob grew

larger and bolder, better armed and better organized, daily augmented

and assisted from without. The last outpost which Colonel Ross-Ellison

withdrew was the one from the railway-station, and that was maintained

until it was known that large bridges had been blown up on either side

and the railway rendered useless. In the Jail gate-house he established

a strong guard under the Superintendent, and urged him to use it

ruthlessly, to kill on the barest suspicion of mutiny, and to welcome

the first opportunity of giving the sharpest of lessons.

In this matter he set a personal example and behaved, to actual rioters,

with what some of his followers considered unnecessary severity, and

what others viewed as wise war-ending firmness.

When remonstrated with by Mr. Cornelius Gosling-Green (caught, alas!

with his admirable wife in this sudden and terrible maelstrom), for

shooting, against the Prison wall, a squad of armed men caught by night

and under more than suspicious circumstances, within Cantonment limits,

he replied curtly and rudely:--

"My good little Gosling, I'd shoot _you_ with my own hand if you failed

me in the least particular--so stick to your drill and hope to become a

Corporal before the war is over".

The world-famous Mr. Cornelius Gosling-Green, M.P., hoping to become a

Corporal! Meanwhile he was less--a private soldier, doing four hard

drills a day--not to mention sentry-go and fatigues. Like Augustus

Clarence Percy Marmaduke Grobble, he grumbled bitterly--but he obeyed,

having been offered the hard choice of enrolment or exclusion.

"I'll have no useless male mouths here," had said Colonel Ross-Ellison.

"Enroll or clear out and take your chance. I'll look after your wife."

"But, my dear Sir...."

"'Sir' without the 'my dear,' please."

"I was about to say that I could--ah--assist, advise, sit upon your

councils, give you the benefit of my--er--experience, ..." the Publicist

had expostulated.

"Experience of war?"

"No--er--I----"

"Enroll or clear out--and when you have enrolled remember that you are

under martial law and in time of war."

A swift, fierce, masterful man, harsh and ruthless making war without

kid gloves--that it might end the sooner and be the longer remembered by

the survivors. The flag was to be kept flying in Gungapur, the women and

children were to be saved, all possible damage was to be inflicted on

the rebels and rioters, more particularly upon those who led and incited

them. The Gosling-Greens and Grobbles who could not materially assist to

this end could go, those who could thwart or hinder this end could die.

Gleams of humour enlivened the situation. Mrs. Gosling-Green (_née_ a

Pounding-Pobble, Superiora Pounding-Pobble, one of the Pounding-Pobbles

of Putney) was under the orders, very much under the orders, of the wife

of the Sergeant-Major, and early and plainly learnt that good woman's

opinion that she was a poor, feckless body and eke a fushionless, not

worth the salt of her porridge--a lazy slut withal.

Among the "awkward squads" enrolled when rioting broke out and the corps

seized the old Prison, were erstwhile grave and reverend seniors

learning to "stand up like a man an' look prahd o' yourself" at the

orders of the Sergeant-Major. Among them were two who had been Great

Men, Managers signing _per_ and _pro_, Heads of Departments, almost Tin

Gods, and one of them, alas, was at the mercy of a mere boy whom he had

detested and frequently "squashed" in the happy days of yore. The mere

boy (a cool, humorous, and somewhat vindictive person, one of the best

subalterns of the Corps and especially chosen by Colonel Ross-Ellison

when re-organizing the battalion after its disbandment) was giving his

close attention to the improvement of his late manager, a pompous, dull

and silly bureaucrat, even as his late manager had done for him.

"Now, Private Bulliton," he would urge, "_do_ learn which is your right

hand and which is your left. And _do_ stand up.... No--don't drop your

rifle when you are told to 'shoulder'. _That's_ better--we shall make

something of you yet. Head up, man, head up! Try and look fierce. Look

at Private Faggit--he'll be a Sergeant yet" ... and indeed Private

Horace Faggit was looking very fierce indeed, for he desired the blood

of these interfering villains who were hindering the development of the

business of the fine old British firm of Messrs. Schneider, Schnitzel,

Schnorrer & Schmidt and the commissions of their representative. Also he

felt that he was assisting at the making of history. 'Orace in a

bloomin' siege--Gorblimey!--and he, who had never killed anything bigger

than an insect in his life, lusted to know how it felt to shove your

bayonet into a feller or shoot 'im dead at short rynge. So Horace

drilled with alacrity and zest, paid close attention to

aiming-instruction and to such visual-training and distance-judging as

his officer, Captain John Bruce, could give him, and developed a

military aptitude surprising to those who had known him only as Horace

Faggit, Esquire, the tried and trusted Representative of the fine old

British Firm of Schneider, Schnitzel, Schnorrer & Schmidt.

To Captain Malet-Marsac, an unusually thoughtful, observant and

studious soldier, it was deeply interesting to see how War affected

different people how values changed, how the Great became exceeding

small, and the insignificant person became important. By the end of the

first month of what was virtually the siege of the Military Prison,

Horace Faggit, late office-boy, clerk, and bagman, was worth

considerably more than Augustus Grobble, late Professor of Moral

Philosophy; Cornelius Gosling-Green, late Publicist; Edward Jones, late

(alleged) Educationist, of Duri formerly; and a late Head of a

Department,--all rolled into one--a keen, dapper, self-reliant soldier,

courageous, prompt, and very bloodthirsty.

As he strolled up and down, supervising drills, went round the

sentry-posts by night, or marched at the head of a patrol, Captain

Malet-Marsac would reflect upon the relativity of things, the false

values of civilization, and the extraordinary devitalising and

deteriorating results of "education". When it came to vital issues,

elementals, stark essential manhood,--then the elect of civilization,

the chosen of education, weighed, was found not only wanting but largely

negligible. Where the highly "educated" was as good as the other he was

so by reason of his games and sports, his _shikar_, or his specialized

training--as in the case of the engineers and other physically-trained

men.

Captain John Bruce, for example, Professor of Engineering, was a soldier

in a few weeks and a fine one. In time of peace, a quiet, humorous, dour

and religious-minded man, he was now a stern disciplinarian and a

cunning foe who fought to kill, rejoicing in the carnage that taught a

lesson and made for earlier peace. The mind that had dreamed of

universal brotherhood and the Oneness of Humanity now dreamed of

ambushes, night-attacks, slaughterous strategy and magazine-fire on a

cornered foe.

Surely and steadily the men enclosed behind the walls of the old Prison

rose into the ranks of the utterly reliable, the indefatigable, the

fearless and the fine, or sank into those of the shifty, unhearty,

unreliable, and unworthy--save the few who remained steadily mediocre,

well-meaning, unsoldierly, fairly trustworthy--a useful second line, but

not to be sent on forlorn hopes, dangerous reconnoitring, risky

despatch-carrying, scouting, or ticklish night-work. One siege is very

like another--and Ross-Ellison's garrison knew increasing weariness,

hunger, disease and casualties.

Mrs. Dearman's conduct raised Colonel Ross-Ellison's love to a burning,

yearning devotion, and his defence of Gungapur became his defence of

Mrs. Dearman. For her husband she appeared to mourn but little--there

was little time to mourn--and, for a while, until sights, sounds and

smells became increasingly horrible, she appeared almost to enjoy her

position of Queen of the Garrison, the acknowledged Ladye of the

Officers and men of the Corps. Until she fell sick herself, she played

the part of amateur Florence Nightingale right well, going regularly

with a lamp--the Lady with the Lamp--at night through the hospital ward.

Captain John Bruce was the only one who was not loud in her praises,

though he uttered no dispraises. He, a dour and practical person,

thought the voyage with the Lamp wholly unnecessary and likely to awaken

sleepers to whom sleep was life; that lint-scraping would have been a

more useful employment than graciousness to the poor wounded; that a

woman, as zealous as Mrs. Dearman looked, would have torn up dainty

cotton and linen confections for bandages instead of wearing them; that

the Commandant didn't need all the personal encouragement and

enheartenment that she wished to give him--and many other uncomfortable,

cynical, and crabby thoughts. Captain Malet-Marsac loved her without

criticism.

Mrs. Cornelius Gosling-Green, after haranguing all and sundry,

individually and collectively, on the economic unsoundness, the illogic,

and the unsocial influence of War, took to her bed and stayed there

until she found herself totally neglected. Arising and demanding an

interview with the Commandant, she called him to witness that she

entered a formal protest against the whole proceedings and registered

her emphatic----until the Commandant, sending for Cornelius (whose

duties cut him off, unrepining, from his wife's society), ordered him to

remove her, silence her, beat her if necessary--and so save her from the

unpleasant alternative of solitary confinement on bread and water until

she could be, if not useful, innocuous.

Many a poor woman of humble station proved herself (what most women are)

an uncomplaining, unconsidered heroine, and more than one "subordinate"

of mixed ancestry and unpromising exterior, a brave devoted man. As

usual, what kept the flag flying and gave ultimate victory to the

immeasurably weaker side was the spirit, the personality, the force, the

power, of one man.

To Captain Malet-Marsac this was a revelation. Even to him, who knew

John Robin Ross-Ellison well, and had known and studied him for some

time at Duri and elsewhere, it was a wonderful thing to see how the

quiet, curious, secretive man (albeit a fine athlete, horseman and

adventurous traveller) stepped suddenly into the fierce light of supreme

command in time of war, a great, uncompromising, resourceful ruler of

men, skilful strategist and tactician, remarkable both as organizer,

leader, and personal fighter.

Did he _ever_ sleep? Night after night he penetrated into the city

disguised as a Pathan (a disguise he assumed with extraordinary skill

and which he strengthened by a perfect knowledge of many Border dialects

as well as of Pushtoo), or else personally led some night attack, sally,

reconnaissance or foraging expedition. Day after day he rode out on

Zuleika with the few mounted men at his command, scouting,

reconnoitring, gleaning information, attacking and slaughtering small

parties of marauders as occasion offered.

From him the professional soldier, his adjutant, learned much, and

wondered where his Commandant had learned all he had to teach. Captain

Malet-Marsac owned him master, his military as well as his official

superior, and grew to feel towards him as his immediate followers felt

toward Napoleon--to love him with a devoted respect, a respecting

devotion. He recognized in him the born guerrilla leader--and more, the

trained guerrilla leader, and wondered where on earth this strange

civilian had garnered his practical military knowledge and skill.

Wherever he went on foot, especially when he slipped out of the Prison

for dangerous spy-work among the forces of the mutineers, rebels,

rioters and _budmashes_ of the city, he was followed by his servant, an

African, concerning whom Colonel Ross-Ellison had advised the servants

of the Officers' Mess to be careful and also to bear in mind that he was

not a _Hubshi_. Only when the Colonel rode forth on horseback was he

separated from this man who, when the Colonel was in his room,

invariably slept across the door thereof.

On night expeditions, the Somali would be disguised, sometimes as a

leprous beggar, as stable-boy, again as an Arab, sometimes as a renegade

sepoy from a Native Border Levy, sometimes as a poor fisherman, again as

a Sidi boatman, he being, like his master, exceptionally good at

disguises of all kinds, and knowing Hindustani, Arabic, and his native

Somal dialect.

He was an expert bugler, and in that capacity stuck like a burr to the

Colonel by day, looking very smart and workmanlike in khaki uniform and

being of more than average usefulness with rifle and bayonet. Not until

after the restoration of order did Mr. Edward Jones, formerly of the

Duri High School, long puzzled as to where he had seen him before,

realize who he was.

* * * * *

In a low dark room, dimly lighted that evening by wick-and-saucer

_butties_, squatted, lay, sat, stood and sprawled a curious collection

of scoundrels. The room was large, and round the four sides of it ran a

very broad, very low, and very filthy divan, intended for the rest and

repose of portly _bunnias_,[65] _seths_,[66] brokers, shopkeepers and

others of the commercial fraternity, what time they assembled to chew

pan and exchange lies and truths anent money and the markets. A very

different assembly now occupied its greasy lengths _vice_ the former

habitués of the _salon_, now dispersed, dead, robbed, ruined, held to

ransom, or cruelly blackmailed.

[65] Dealers.

[66] Money-lenders.

In the seat of honour (an extra cushion), sat the blind faquir who, with

his clerkly colleague, had set the original match to the magazine by

inciting the late Mr. Dearman's coolies. Apparently a relentless,

terrible fanatic and bitter hater of the English, for his councils were

all of blood and fire, rapine and slaughter, he taunted his hearers with

their supine cowardice in that the Military Prison still held out, its

handful of defenders still manned its walls, nay, from time to time,

made sallies and terrible reprisals upon a careless ill-disciplined

enemy.

"Were I but as other men! Had I but mine eyes!" he screamed, "I would

overwhelm the place in an hour. Hundreds to one you are--and you are

mocked, robbed, slaughtered."

A thin-faced, evil-looking, squint-eyed Hindu whose large, thick,

gold-rimmed goggles accorded ill with the sword that lay athwart his

crossed legs, addressed him in English.

"Easy to talk, Moulvie. Had you your sight you could perhaps drill and

arm the mob into an army, eh? Find them repeating rifles and ammunition,

find them officers, find them courage? Is it not? Yes."

"Hundreds to one, Babu," grunted the blind man, and spat.

"I would urge upon this august assemblee," piped a youthful weedy

person, "that recreemination is not argument, and that many words butter

no parsneeps, so to speak. We are met to decide as to whether the

treasure shall be removed to Pirgunge or still we keep it with us here

in view of sudden sallies of foes. I hereby beg to propose and my

honourable friend Mister----"

"Sit down, crow," said the blind faquir unkindly and there was a

snigger. "The treasure will be removed at once--this night, or I will

remove myself from Gungapur with all my followers--and go where deeds

are being done. I weary of waiting while pi-dogs yelp around the walls

they cannot enter. Cowards! Thousands to one--and ye do not kill two of

them a day. Conquer and slay them? Nay--rather must our own treasure be

removed lest some night the devil, in command there, swoop upon it,

driving ye off like sheep and carrying back with him----"

"Flesh and blood cannot face a machine-gun, Moulvie," said the

squint-eyed Hindu. "Even _your_ holy sanctity would scarcely protect you

from bullets. Come forth and try to-morrow."

"Nor can flesh and blood--such flesh and blood as Gungapur

provides--surround the machine-gun and rush upon it from flank and rear

of course," replied the blind man. "Do machine guns fire in all

directions at once? When they ran the accursed thing down to the

market-place and fired it into the armed crowd that listened to my

words, could ye not have fled by other streets to surround it? Had all

rushed bravely from all directions how long would it have fired? Even

thus, could more have died than did die? Scores they slew--and retired

but when they could fire no longer.... And ye allowed it to go because a

dozen men stood between it and you----," and again the good man spat.

"I do not say 'Sit down, crow' for thou art already sitting," put in a

huge, powerful-looking man, arrayed in a conical puggri-encircled cap,

long pink shirt over very baggy peg-top trousers, and a green waistcoat,

"but I weary of thy chatter Blind-Man. Keep thy babble for fools in the

market-place, where, I admit, it hath its uses. Remain our valued and

respected talker and interfere not with fighting men, nor criticize. And

say not 'The treasure will be removed this night,' nor anything else

concerning command. _I_ will decide in the matter of the treasure and I

prefer to keep it here under mine hand...."

"Doubtless," sneered the blind man. "Under thy hand--until, in the end,

it be found to consist of boxes of stones and old iron. Look you--the

treasure goes to-night or _I_ go, and certain others go with me. And

suppose I change my tune in the market-place, Havildar Nazir Ali Khan,

and say certain words concerning _thee_ and thy designs, give hints of

treachery--and where is the loud-mouthed Nazir Ali Khan?..." and his

blind eyes glared cold ferocity at the last speaker who handled his

sword and replied nothing.

The secret of the man's power was clear.

"The treasure will be removed to night," he repeated and a discussion of

limes, routes, escort and other details followed. A dispute arose

between the big man addressed as Havildar Nazir Ali Khan and a squat

broad-shouldered Pathan as to the distance and probable time that a

convoy, moving at the rate of laden bullock-carts, would take in

reaching Pirgunge.

The short thick-set Pathan turned for confirmation of his estimate to

another Pathan, grey-eyed but obviously a Pathan, nevertheless.

"I say it is five _kos_ and the carts should start at moonrise and

arrive before the moon sets."

"You are right, brother," replied the grey-eyed Pathan, who, for his own

reasons, particularly desired that the convoy should move by moonlight.

This individual had not spoken hitherto in the hearing of the blind

faquir, and, as he did so now, the blind man turned sharply in his

direction, a look of startled surprise and wonder on his face.

"Who spoke?" he snapped.

But the grey-eyed man arose, yawned hugely, and, arranging his puggri

and straightening his attire, swaggered towards the door of the room,

passed out into a high-walled courtyard, exchanged a few words with the

guardian of a low gateway, and emerged into a narrow alley where he was

joined by an African-looking camel-man.

The blind man, listening intently, sat motionless for a minute and then

again asked sharply:--

"Who spoke? Who spoke?"

"Many have spoken Pir Saheb," replied the squat Pathan.

"Who said '_You are right, brother_,' but now? Who? Quick!" he cried.

"Who? Why, 'twas one of us," replied the squat Pathan. "Yea, 'twas

Abdulali Habbibullah, the money-lender. I have known him long...."

"Let him speak again," said the blind man.

"Where is he? He has gone out, I think," answered the other.

"Call him back, Hidayetullah. Take others and bring him back. I must

hear his voice again," urged the faquir.

"He will come again, Moulvie Saheb, he is often here," said the short

man soothingly. "I know him well. He will be here to-morrow."

"See, Hidayetullah," said the blind faquir "when next he comes, say then

to me, 'May I bring thee tobacco, Pir Saheb,' if he be sitting near, but

say 'May I bring thee tobacco, Moulvie Saheb,' if he be sitting afar

off. If this, speak to him across the room that I may hear his voice in

answer, and call him by his name, Abdulali Habbibullah. And if I should,

on a sudden, cry out 'Hold the door,' do thou draw knife and leap to the

door...."

"A _spy_, Pir Saheb?" asked the interested man.

"That I shall know when next I hear his voice--and, if it be he whom I

think, thou shalt scrape the flesh from the bones of his face with thy

knife and put his eyeballs in his mouth. But he must not die. Nay! Nay!"

The Pathan smiled.

"Thou shalt hear his voice, Pir Saheb," he promised.

* * * * *

An hour later the African-looking camel-man and the Pathan approached

the gates of the Military Prison and at a distance of a couple of

hundred yards the African imitated the cry of a jackal, the barking of a

dog and the call of the "Did-ye-do-it" bird.

Approaching the gate he whispered a countersign and was admitted, the

gate being then held open for the Pathan who followed him at a distance

of a hundred yards. Entering Colonel Ross-Ellison's room the Pathan

quickly metamorphosed himself into Colonel Ross-Ellison, and sent for

his Adjutant, Captain Malet-Marsac.

"Fifty of the best, with fifty rounds each, to parade at the gate in

half an hour," he said. "Bruce to accompany me, you to remain in command

here. All who can, to wear rubber-soled shoes, others to go barefoot or

bandage their boots with putties over cardboard or paper. No man likely

to cough or sneeze is to go. Luminous-paint discs to be served out to

half a dozen. No rations, no water,--just shirts, shorts and bandoliers.

Nothing white or light-coloured to be worn. Put a strong outpost, all

European, under Corporal Faggit on the hill, and double all guards and

sentries. Shove sentry-groups at the top of the Sudder Bazaar, West

Street and Edward Road.--_You_ know all about it.... I've got a good

thing on. There'll be a lot of death about to-night, if all goes well."

Half an hour later Captain Bruce called his company of fifty picked men

to "attention" as Colonel Ross-Ellison approached, the gate was opened

and an advance-guard of four men, with four flankers, marched out and

down the road leading to the open country. Two of these wore each a

large tin disc painted with luminous paint fastened to his back. When

these discs were only just visible from the gate a couple more

disc-adorned men started forth, and before their discs faded into the

darkness the remainder of the party "formed fours" and marched after

them, all save a section of fours which followed a couple of hundred

yards in the rear, as a rear-guard. In silence the small force advanced

for an hour, passed some cross-roads, and then Colonel Ross-Ellison,

who had joined the advance-guard, signalled a halt and moved away by

himself to the right of the road.

In the shadow of the trees, the moon having risen, Captain Bruce ordered

his men to lie down, announcing in a whisper that he would have the life

of anyone who made a sound or struck a match. This was known to be but

half in jest, for the Captain was a good disciplinarian and a man of his

word.

Save for the occasional distant bark of the village-dogs, the night was

very still. Sitting staring out into the moon-lit hazy dusk in the

direction in which his chief had disappeared, Captain John Bruce

wondered if he were really one of a band of armed men who hoped shortly

to pour some two and a half thousand bullets into other men, really a

soldier fighting and working and starving that the Flag might fly,

really a primitive fighting-man with much blood upon his hands and an

earnest desire for more--or whether he were not a respectable Professor

who would shortly wake, beneath mosquito-curtains, from a very dreadful

dream. How thin a veneer was this thing called Civilization, and how

unchanged was human nature after centuries and centuries of----

Colonel Ross-Ellison appeared.

"Bring twenty-five men and follow me. Hurry up," he said quietly, and, a

minute later, led the way from the high-road across country. Five

minutes marching brought the party, advancing in file, to the mouth of a

nullah which ran parallel with the road. Along this, Colonel

Ross-Ellison led them, and, when he gave the signal to halt, it was seen

that they were behind a high sloping bank within fifty yards of the

high-road.

"Now," said the Colonel to Captain John Bruce, "I'm going to leave you

here. Let your men lie below the top of the bank and if any man looks

over, till your command 'Up and fire,' kick his face in. You will peep

through that bit of bush and no one else will move. Do nothing until I

open fire from the other side. The moment I open fire, up your lot come

and do the same. Magazine, of course. The moon will improve as it rises

more. You'll fix bayonets and charge magazines now. I expect a pretty

big convoy--and before very long. Probably a mob all round a couple of

_bylegharies_[67] and a crowd following--everybody distrusting every

one, as it is treasure, looted from all round. Don't shoot the bullocks,

but I particularly want to kill a blind bloke who may be with 'em, so if

we charge, barge in too, and look out for a blinder and don't give him

any quarter--give him half instead--half your sword. He's a

ringleader--and I want him for auld lang syne too, as it happens. He

doesn't look blind at all, but he would be led.... Any questions?"

[67] Bullock-carts.

"No, Sir. I'm to hide till you fire. Then fire, magazine, and charge if

you do. A blind man to be captured if possible. The bullocks not to be

shot, if possible."

"Eight O. Carry on," and the Colonel strode back to where the remaining

twenty-five waited, under a Sergeant. These he placed behind an old

stone wall that marked the boundary of a once-cultivated patch of land,

some forty yards from the road, to which the ground sloped sharply

downwards.

A nice trap if all went well.

All went exceeding well.

Within an hour and a half of the establishment of the ambush, the

creaking of ungreased wheels was heard and the loud nasal singing of

some jovial soul. Down the silent deserted road came three bullock-carts

piled high with boxes and escorted by a ragged regiment of ex-sepoys,

ex-police, mutineers, almost a battalion from the forces of the wild

Border State neighbouring Gungapur. A small crowd of variously armed

uniformless men preceded the escort and carts, while a large one

followed them.

No advance-guard nor flanking-parties guaranteed the force from ambush

or attack.

Suddenly, as the carts crossed a long culvert and the escort perforce

massed on to the road, instead of straggling on either side beneath the

trees, a voice said coolly in English "Up and fire," and as scores of

surprised faces turned in the direction of the voice the night was rent

with the crash of fifty rifles pouring in magazine fire at the rate of

fifteen rounds a minute. Magazine fire at less than fifty yards, into a

close-packed body of men. Scarcely a hundred shots were returned and, by

the time a couple of thousand rounds had been fired (less than three

minutes), and Colonel Boss-Ellison had cried "Ch-a-a-a-r-ge" there was

but little to charge and not much for the bayonet to do. Of the six

bullocks four were uninjured.

"Load as many boxes as you can on two carts, and leave half a dozen men

to bring them in. They'll have to take their chance. We must get back

_ek dum_,"[68] said Colonel Ross-Ellison.

[68] At once.

Even as he spoke, the sound of distant firing fell upon the ears of the

party and the unmistakable stammer-hammer racket of the maxim.

"They're attacked, by Jove," he cried. "I thought it likely. There may

have been an idea that we should know something of this convoy and go

for it. All ready? Now a steady double. We'll double and quick-march

alternately. Double _march_."

* * * * *

Near the Military Prison was a low conical hill, bare of vegetation and

buildings, a feature of the situation which was a constant source of

anxiety to Colonel Ross-Ellison, for he realized that life in the

beleaguered fortress would be very much harder, and the casualty rate

very much higher, if the enemy had the sense to occupy it in strength

and fire down into the Prison. Against this contingency he always

maintained a picket there at night and a special sentry to watch it by

day, and he had caused deep trenches to be dug and a covered way made in

the Prison compound, so that the fire-swept area could be crossed, when

necessary, with the minimum of risk. Until the night of the

convoy-sortie, however, the enemy had not had the ordinary common sense

to grasp the fact that the hill was the key of the situation and to

seize it.

"Bloomin' cold up 'ere, Privit Greens, wot?" observed Corporal Horace

Faggit to the famous Mr. Cornelius Gosling-Green, M.P., in kindly and

condescending manner, as he placed him back to back with Private

Augustus Grobble on the hill-top. "But you'll keep awake all the better

for that, me lad.... Now you other four men can go to sleep, see?

You'll lie right close up agin the feet o' Privits Greens an' Grabbles,

and when they've done their two hours, they'll jes' give two o' you a

kick and them two'll rise up an' take their plaices while they goes to

sleep. Then them two'll waike 'tother two, see? An' if hannyone

approaches, the sentry as is faicin' 'im will 'olleraht 'Alt! 'Oo comes

there?' an' if the bloke or blokes say, 'Friend,' then 'e'll say

'Hadvance one an' give the countersign,' and if he can't give no

countersign, then blow 'is bleedin' 'ead off, see?... Now _I_ shall

visit yer from time to time, an' let me find you spry an' smart with

yer,' _'Alt,' 'Oo comes there?_ see? An' if either sentry sees anythink

suspicious down below there--let 'im send the other sentry across fer me

over in the picket there, see? 'E'll waike up the others meanwhile an'

they'll all watch out till I comes and gives orders, see? An' if you're

attacked afore I come, then retire firing. Retire on the picket, see? We

won't shoot yer. Don't make a bloomin' blackguard-rush for the picket

though. Jest retire one by one firin' steady, see? Now I'm goin' back to

the picket. Ow! an' don' fergit the reconnoitrin' patrol. Don' go an'

shoot at 'em as they comes back. 'Alt 'em for the countersign as they

comes out, and 'alt 'em fer it agin as they comes in, see? Right O. Now

you keep yer eyes skinned, Greens and Grobbles."

Private Cornelius Gosling-Green, M.P., had never looked really

impressive even on the public platform in over-long frock-coat and

turned-down collar. In ill-fitting khaki, ammunition boots, a helmet

many sizes too big, and badly-wound putties, he looked an extremely

absurd object. Private Augustus Grobble looked a little more

convincing, inasmuch as his fattish figure filled his uniform, but the

habit of wearing his helmet on the back of his neck and a general

congenital unmilitariness of habit and bearing, operated against

success.

Two unhappier men rarely stood back to back upon a lonely, windy

hill-top. Both were very hungry, very sleepy and very cold, both were

essentially men of peace, and both had powerful imaginations--especially

of horrors happening to their cherished selves.

Both were dealers in words; neither was conversant with things, facts,

deeds, and all that lay outside their inexpressibly artificial and

specialized little spheres. Each had been "educated" out of physical

manliness, self-reliance, courage, practical usefulness, adaptability,

"grit" and the plain virile virtues.

Cornelius burned with a peevish indignation that he, writer of

innumerable pamphlets, speaker at innumerable meetings, organizer of

innumerable societies, compiler of innumerable statistics, author of

innumerable letters to the press, he, husband of the famous suffragist

worker, speaker, organizer and leader, Superiora Gosling-Green (a

Pounding-Pobble of the Pounding-Pobbles of Putney), that he, Cornelius

Gosling-Green, Esq., M.P., should be stuck there like a common soldier,

with a heavy and dangerous gun and a nasty sharp-pointed bayonet, to

stand and shiver while others slept. To stand, too, in a horribly

dangerous situation ... he had a good mind to resign in protest, to take

his stand upon his inalienable rights as a free Englishman. Who should

dare to coerce a Gosling-Green, Member of Parliament, of the Fabian

Society, and a hundred other "bodies". His Superiora did all the

coercing he wanted and more too. He would enter a formal protest and

tender his resignation. He had always, hitherto, been able to protest

and resign when things did not go as he wished.

He yawned, and again.

"I can see as well sitting or kneeling as I can standing," he remarked

to Private Augustus Grobble.

"It is a great physiological truth," replied Augustus, and they both sat

down, leaning against each other for warmth and support, back to back.

The soul of Augustus was filled with a melancholy sadness and a gentle

woe. To think that he, the loved of many beautiful Wimmin should be

suffering such hardships and running such risks. How his face was

falling in and how the wrinkles were gathering round his eyes. Some of

the beautiful and frail, of whom he thought when he gave his usual toast

after dinner, "To the Wimmin who have loved me," would hardly recognize

the fair boy over whom they had raved, whose poems they had loved, whose

hair, finger-nails, eyes, ties, socks and teeth they had complimented. A

cruel, cruel waste. But how rather romantic--the war-worn soldier! He

who knew his Piccadilly, Night Clubs, the theatres, the haunts of fair

women and brave men, standing, no--sitting, on a lonely hill-top

watching, watching, the lives of the garrison in his hands.... He would

return to those haunts, bronzed, lined, hardened--the man from the edge

of the Empire, from the back of Beyond, the man who had Done Things--and

talk of camp-fires, the trek, the Old Trail, smells of sea and desert

and jungle, and the man-stifled town, ... battle, ... brave deeds ...

unrecognized heroism ... a medal ... perhaps the ... and the nodding

head of Augustus settled upon his chest.

His deep breathing and occasional snores did not attract the attention

of Private Gosling-Green, as Private Gosling-Green was sound asleep. Nor

did they awaken the weary four who made up the sentry group--Edward

Jones, educationist; Henry Grigg, barber; Walter Smith, shopman;

Reginald Ladon Gurr, Head of a Department--and whose right it was to

sleep so long as two of the six watched.

* * * * *

"Let there be no mistake then," said the burly Havildar Nazir Ali Khan

to one Hidayetulla, squat thick-set Pathan, "at the first shot from the

hill your party, ceasing to crawl, will rush upon the picket, and mine

will swoop upon the gate bearing the tins of kerosene oil, the faggots

and the brushwood. All those with guns will fire at the walls save the

Border State company who will reserve their fire till the gate is opened

or burnt down. The dogs within must either open it to extinguish the

fire, or it must burn. On their volley, all others will charge for the

gate with knife and sword. Do thou win the hill-top and keep up a heavy

fire into the Prison. There will be Lee-Metford rifles and ammunition

there ready for thy taking--ha-ha!"

"And if we are seen and fired on as we stalk the picket on the hill?"

"Then their first shot will, as I said, be the signal for your rush and

ours. Understandest thou?"

"I understand. 'Tis a good plan of the blind Moulvie's."

"Aye! He can _plan_,--and talk. We can go and be shot, and be blamed if

his plans miscarry," grumbled the big man, and added, "How many have

you?"

"About forty," was the reply, "and all Khost men save seven, of whom

four are Afghans of Cabul, two are Punjabis, and one a Sikh."

"Is it three hours since the treasure started? That was the time the

Moulvie fixed for the attack."

"It must be, perhaps," replied the other. "Let us begin. But what if the

hill be not held, or if we capture it with the knife, none firing a

shot?"

"Then get into good position, make little sungars where necessary, and,

all being ready, open fire into the Prison compound.... At the first

shot--whatever be thy luck--we shall rush in our thousands down the

Sudder Bazaar, West Street and Edward Street, and do as planned. Are thy

forty beneath the trees beyond the hill?"

"They are. I join them now," and the squat broad-shouldered figure

rolled away with swinging, swaggering gait.

Suddenly Private Augustus Grobble started from deep sleep to acutest

wide-eyed consciousness and was aware of a man's face peering over a

boulder not twenty yards from him--a hideous hairy face, surmounted by a

close-fitting skull-cap that shone greasy in the moonlight. The blood of

Augustus froze in his veins, he held his breath, his heart shook his

body, his tongue withered and dried. He closed his eyes as a wave of

faintness swept over him, and, as he opened them again, he saw that the

man was crawling towards him, and that between his teeth was a huge

knife. The terrible Pathan, the cruel dreadful stalker, the slashing

disemboweller was upon him!--and with a mighty effort he sprang to his

feet and fled for his life down the hill in the direction of the Prison.

His sudden movements awoke Private Green, who, in one scared glance, saw

a number of terrible forms arising from behind boulders and rushing

silently and swiftly towards him and his flying comrade. Leaping up he

fled after Grabble, running as he had never run before, and, even as he

leapt clear of the sleeping group, the wave of Pathans broke upon it and

with slash and stab assured it sound sleep for ever, all save Edward

Jones, who, badly wounded as he was, survived (to the later undoing of

Moussa Isa, murderer of a Brahmin boy).

Of the four Pathans who had surprised the sentry group, one, with a

passing slash that re-arranged the face of Reginald Ladon Gurr, sped on

after the flying sentries. But that the man was short and stout of build

and that the fugitives had a down-hill start, both would have died that

night. As it was, within ten seconds, a tremendous sweep of the heavy

blade of the long Khyber knife caused Private Gosling-Green to lose his

head completely and for the last time. Augustus Grobble, favoured of

fortune for the moment, took flying leaps that would have been

impossible to him under other circumstances, bounded and ran

unstumbling, gained the shadow of the avenue of trees, and with bursting

breast sped down the road, reached the gate, shouted the countersign

with his remaining breath, and was dragged inside by Captain Michael

Malet-Marsac.

"Well?" inquired he coldly of the gasping terrified wretch.

When he could do so, Augustus sobbed out his tale.

"Bugler, sound the alarm!" said the officer. "Sergeant of the Guard put

this man in the guard-room and keep him under arrest until he is sent

for," and, night-glasses in hand, he climbed one of the ladders leading

to the platform erected a few feet below the top of the well-loopholed

wall, just as a shot was fired and followed by others in rapid

succession on the hill whence Grobble had fled.

The shot was fired by Corporal Horace Faggit and so were the next four

as he rapidly emptied his magazine at the swiftly charging Pathans who

rose out of the earth on his first shot at the man he had seen wriggling

to the cover of a stone. As he fired and shouted, the picket-sentry did

the same, and, within a minute of Horace's first shot, ten rifles were

levelled at the spot where the rushing silent fiends had disappeared.

Within thirty yards of them were at least half a dozen men--and not a

glimpse of one to be seen.

"I got one, fer keeps, any'ow," said Horace in the silence that followed

the brief racket; "I see 'im drop 'is knife an' fall back'ards...."

Perfect silence--and then ... _bang_ ... and a man standing beside

Horace grunted, coughed, and scuffled on the ground.

"Get down! Get down! You fools," cried Horace, who was himself standing

up. "Wha's the good of a square sungar if you stands up in it? All

magazines charged? It's magazine-fire if there's a rush."....

Silence.

"Fire at the next flash, all of yer," he said, "an' look out fer a

rush." Adding, "Bli' me--'ark at 'em dahn below," as a burst of fire

and a pandemonium of yells broke out.

A yellow glare lit the scene, flickered on the sky, and even gave

sufficient light to the picket on the hill-top to see a wave of wild,

white-clad, knife-brandishing figures surge over the edge of the hill

and bear down upon them, to be joined, as they passed, by those who had

sunk behind stones at the picket's first fire.

"Stiddy," shrilled Horace. "Aim stiddy at the b----s. _Fire_," and again

the charging line vanished.

"Gone to earf," observed Horace in the silence. "Nah look aht for

flashes an' shoot at 'em...."

_Bang!_ and Horace lost a thumb and a portion of his left cheek, which

was in line with his left thumb as he sighted his rifle.

Before putting his left hand into his mouth he said, a little

unsteadily:--

"If I'm knocked aht you go on shootin' at flashes and do magazine-fire

fer rushes. If they gets in 'ere, we're tripe in two ticks."

Then he fainted for a while, came to, and felt much better. "Goo' job

it's the left fumb," he observed as he strove to re-charge his magazine.

The dull thud of bullet into flesh became a frequent sound. The last

observation that Horace made to the remnant of his men was:--

"Bli' me! they're all rahnd us now--like flies rahnd a fish-barrer. Dam'

swine!..."

* * * * *

Firing steadily at the advancing mobs the street-end pickets retired on

the Prison and were admitted as the surging crowds amalgamated,

surrounded the walls, and opened a desultory fire at the loopholes and

such of the defenders as fired over the coping from ladders.

One detachment, with some show of military discipline and uniform,

arrayed itself opposite the gate and a couple of hundred yards from it,

lining the ditch of the road, and utilizing the cover and shadow of the

trees. Suddenly a large party, mainly composed of Mahsuds, and headed by

a very big powerful man, made a swift rush to the gate, each man bearing

a bundle of faggots or a load of cut brushwood, save two or three who

bore vessels of kerosene oil. With reckless courage and daring, they ran

the gauntlet of the loopholes and the fire from the wall-top, piled

their combustibles against the wooden gate, poured gallons of kerosene

over the heap, set fire to it, and fled.

The leaping flames spread and shot forth licking tongues and, in a few

minutes, the pile was a roaring crackling furnace.

The mob grew denser and denser toward the gate side of the Prison,

leaving the remaining portions of the perimeter thinly surrounded by

those who possessed firearms and had been instructed to shoot at

loopholes and at all who showed themselves over the wall. It was

noticeable to Captain Malet-Marsac that the ever-increasing mob opposite

the fire left a clear front to the more-or-less uniformed and

disciplined body that had taken up a position commanding the gate.

That was the game was it? Burn down the gate, pour in a tremendous fire

as the gate fell, and then let the mob rush in and do its devilmost....

What was happening on the hill-top? The picket must be holding whatever

force had attacked it, for no shots were entering the Prison compound

and the only casualties were among those at the loopholes and on the

ladders and platforms round the walls. How long would the gate last?

Absolutely useless to attempt to pour water on the fire. Even if it were

not certain death to attempt it, one might as well try to fly, as to

quench that furnace with jugs and _chatties_[69] of water.

[69] Bowls.

There was nothing to be done. Every man who could use a rifle was at

loophole or embrasure, ammunition was plentiful, all non-combatants were

hidden. Every one understood the standing-orders in case of such an

emergency....

The gate was on fire. It was smoking on the inner side, warping,

cracking, little flames were beginning to appear tentatively, and

disappear again.

"_Now_ bugler!" said Captain Malet-Marsac, and Moussa Isa's _locum

tenens_ blew his only call--a series of long loud G's.... The gate

blazed, before long it would fall.... A hush fell upon the expectant

multitude without, the men of the more-or-less uniformed and disciplined

party raised their rifles, a big burly man bawled orders....

With a crash and leaping fountain of sparks the gate fell into the dying

fire, a mighty roar burst from the multitude, and a crashing fusillade

from the rifles of the uniformed men....

As their magazine-fire slackened, dwindled to a desultory popping, and

ceased, the mob with a howl of triumph surged forward to the gaping

gateway, trampled and scattered the glowing remnants of the fire,

swarmed yelling through, and--found themselves face to face with a

stout semicircular rampart of stone, earth and sandbags, which,

loopholed, embrasured and strongly manned, spanned the gateway in a

thirty-yard arc. From the centre of it, pointing at the entrance, looked

the maxim gun.

"_Fire_," shouted a voice, and in a minute the place was a shambles.

Before Maxim and Lee-Metford were too hot to touch, before the baffled

foe fell back, those who surged in through the gate climbed, not over a

wall of dead, but up on to a platform of dead, a plateau through which

ran a valley literally blasted out by the ceaseless maxim-fire....

And, as the less fanatical, less courageous, less bloodthirsty withdrew

and gathered without and to one side, where they were safe from that

terrible fire-belching rampart that was itself like the muzzle of some

gigantic thousand-barrelled machine-gun, they were aware, in their rear,

of a steady tramp of running feet and of the orders:--

"From the centre _extend_! At the enemy in front; fixed sights; _fire_,"

and of a withering hail of bullets.

Colonel Ross-Ellison had arrived in the nick of time. It was a "crowning

mercy" indeed, the beginning of the end, and when (a few days later),

over a repaired bridge, came a troop-train, gingerly advancing, the

battalion of British troops that it disgorged at Gungapur Road Station

found disappointingly little to do in a city of women, children, and

eminently respectable innocent, householders.

* * * * *

On the hill-top, at dawn, Colonel Ross-Ellison and Captain Malet-Marsac

found all that was left of the picket and sentry-group,--of the latter,

three mangled corpses, the headless deserter, and a just-living man,

horribly slashed. It was Moussa Isa Somali who improvised a stretcher

and lifted this poor fellow on to it and tended him with the greatest

solicitude and faithful care. Was he not Jones Sahib who at Duri gave

him the knife wherewith he cleansed his honour and avenged his insulted

People?

Of the picket, nine lay dead and one dying. Of the dead, one had his

lower jaw neatly and cleanly removed by a bullet. Two had bled to death.

"'Ullo, Guvner!" whispered Corporal Horace Faggit through parched

cracked lips. "We kep' 'em orf. We 'eld the bleedin' fort," and the last

effect of the departing mind upon the shot-torn, knife-slashed body was

manifested in a gasping, quavering wail of--

"'Owld the Fort fer Hi am comin'"

Jesus whispers still.

"'Owld the Fort fer Hi am comin,'"

--By Thy graice we will.

Each of these corpses Moussa Isa carried reverently down to the Prison

that they might be "buried darkly at dead of night" with the other

heroes, in softer ground without the walls--a curious funeral in which

loaded rifles and belted maxim played their silent part. Apart from the

honoured dead was buried the body of Private Augustus Grabble, shot

against the Prison wall by order of Colonel Ross-Ellison for cowardice

in the face of the enemy and desertion of his post. So was that of

Private Green, deserter also. After the uninterrupted ceremony, Moussa

Isa, in the guise of an ancient beggar, lame, decrepit, and bandaged

with foul rags, sought the city and the news of the bazaar.

Limping down the lane in which stood the tall silent house that his

master often visited, he saw three men emerge from the well-known low

doorway.

Two approached him while one departed in the opposite direction. One of

these two held the arm of the other.

"I must hear his voice again. I have not heard his voice again," urged

this one insistently to the other.

"Nay--but I have heard thine, thou Dog!" said Moussa Isa to himself, and

turning, followed.

In a neighbouring bazaar the man who seemed to lead the other left him

at the entrance to a mosque--a dark and greasy entry with a short flight

of stone steps.

As he set his foot upon the lowest of these, a hand fell upon the neck

of the man who had been led, and a voice hissed:--

"_Salaam! O Ibrahim the Weeper!_ Salaam! A '_Hubshi_' would speak with

thee...." and another hand joined the first, encircling his throat....

"Art thou dead, Dog?" snarled Moussa Isa, five minutes later....

Moussa Isa never boasted (if he realized the fact) that the collapse of

the revolt and mutiny in Gungapur, before the arrival of troops, was due

as much to the death of its chief ringleader and director, the blind

faquir, as to the disastrous repulse of the great assault upon the

Military Prison.

§ 2.

It had gone. Nothing remained but to clear up the mess and begin afresh

with more wisdom and sounder policy. It was over, and, among other

things now possible, Colonel John Robin Ross-Ellison might ask the woman

he loved whether she could some day become his wife. He had saved her

life, watched over her, served her with mind and body, lived for her.

And she had smiled upon him, looked at him as a woman looks at the man

she more than likes, had given him the encouragement of her smiles, her

trust, affectionate greeting on return from danger, prayers that he

would be "careful" when he went forth to danger.

He believed that she loved him, and would, after a decent interval, even

perhaps a year hence, marry him.

And then he would abandon the old life and ways, become wholly English

and settle down to make her life a happy walk through an enchanted

valley. He would take her to England and there, far from all sights,

sounds and smells of the East, far from everything wild, turbulent,

violent, crush out all the Pathan instincts so terribly aroused and

developed during the late glorious time of War. He would take himself

cruelly in hand. He would neither hunt nor shoot. He would eat no meat,

drink no alcohol, nor seek excitement. He would school himself until he

was a quiet, domesticated English country-gentleman--respectable and

respected, fit husband for a delicately-bred English gentlewoman. And if

ever his hand itched for the knife-hilt, his finger for the trigger,

his cheek for the rifle-butt, his nostrils for the smell of the

cooking-fires, his soul for the wild mountain passes, the mad gallop,

the stealthy stalk--he would live on cold water until the Old Adam were

drowned.

He _would_ be worthy of her--and she should never dream what blood was

on his hands, what sights he had looked on, what deeds he had done, what

part he had played in wild undertakings in wild places. English would he

be to the back-bone, to the finger tips, to the marrow; a quiet, clean,

straight-dealing Englishman of normal tastes, habits, and life.

Strange if, with all his love of fighting, he could not fight (and

conquer) himself. Yes--his last great fight should be with himself....

He would call, to-day, at the bungalow to which Mrs. Dearman, prior to

starting for Home, had removed as soon as the carefully-guarded

Cantonment area was pronounced absolutely safe as a place of residence

for the refugees who had been besieged in the old Military Prison.

She would be sufficiently "straight" in her bungalow, by this time, to

permit of a formal mid-day call being a reasonable and normal affair....

"Good-morning, Preserver of Gungapur," said Mrs. Dearman brightly; "have

the Victoria Cross and the Distinguished Service Order materialized

yet--or don't they give them to Volunteers? What a shame if they don't!"

"I want something far more valuable and desirable than those, Mrs.

Dearman," said Colonel Ross-Ellison as he took the extended hand of his

hostess, who was a picture of coolness and health.

"Oh?--and--what is that?" she asked, seating herself on a big settee

with her back to the light.

"You," was the direct and uncompromising reply of the man who had been

leading a remarkably direct and uncompromising life for several years.

Mrs. Dearman trembled, flushed and paled.

"What _do_ you mean?" she managed to say, with a fine affectation of

coolness, unconcern, and indifference.

"I mean what I say," was the answer. "I want _you_. I cannot live

without you. I want to take care of you. I want to devote my life to

making you happy. I want to make you forget this terrible experience and

tragedy. You are lonely and I worship you. I want you to marry me--when

you can--later--and let me serve you for the rest of my life. Make me

the happiest and proudest man in the world and I will strive to be the

noblest."

He was very English then--in his fine passion. He took her hand and it

was not withdrawn. He bent to look in her eyes, she smiled, and in a

second was in his embrace, strained to his breast, her lips crushed by

his.

For a minute he could not speak.

"I cannot believe it," he whispered at length. "Is this a dream?"

"You are a very concrete dream--dear," said Mrs. Dearman, re-arranging

crushed and disarranged flowers at her breast, blushing and laughing

shyly.

The man was filled with awe, reverence and a deep longing for

worthiness.

The woman felt happy in the sense of safety, of power, of pride in the

love of so fine a being.

"And how long have you loved me?" she murmured.

"Loved you, Cleopatra? Dearest--I have loved you from the moment my eyes

first fell on you.... Poor salt-encrusted, weary, bloodshot eyes they

were too," he added, smiling, reminiscent.

"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Dearman, puzzled.

"Ah--I have a secret to tell you--a confession that will open those

beautiful eyes wide with surprise. I first saw you when you _were_

Cleopatra Brighte."

"Good gracious!" ejaculated Mrs. Dearman in great surprise. "When_ever_

when?"

"I'll tell you," said the man, smiling fondly. "You have my photograph.

You took it yourself--on board the 'Malaya'."

"I?" said Mrs. Dearman. "What _are_ you talking about?"

"About you, dearest, and the time when I first saw you--and fell in love

with you;--love at first sight, indeed."

"But I never photographed you on board ship. I never saw you on a ship.

I met you first here in Gungapur."

"Do you remember the 'Malaya' stopping to pick up a shipwrecked sailor,

a castaway, in a little dug-out canoe, somewhere in the Indian Ocean,

when you were first coming out to India? But of course you do--you have

the snap-shot in your collection...."

"Why--yes--I remember, of course--but that was a horrid, beastly

_native_. The creature could only speak Hindustani. He was the sole

survivor of the crew of some dhow or bunder-boat, they said.... He lived

and worked with the Lascars till we got to Bombay. Yes...."

"I was that native," said Colonel Ross-Ellison.

"_You_," whispered Mrs. Dearman. "_You_," and scanned his face intently.

"Yes. I. I _am_ half a native. My father was a Pathan. He----"

"_What_?" asked the woman hoarsely, drawing away. "_What_? _What_ are

you saying?"

"I am half Pathan--my father was a Pathan and my mother an Australian

squatter's daughter."

"_Go_," shrieked Mrs. Dearman, springing to her feet. "_Go_. You wretch!

You mean, base liar! To cheat me so! To pretend you were a gentleman.

Leave my house! Go! You horrible--_mongrel_--you----. To take me in your

arms! To make love to me! To kiss me! Ugh! I could die for shame! I

could _die_----"

The face of the man grew terrible to see. There was no trace of the West

in it, no sign of English ancestry, the face of a mad, blood-mad Afghan.

"_We will both die_," he gasped, and took her by the throat.

* * * * *

A few minutes later a Pathan in the dirty dress of his race fled from

Colonel Ross-Ellison's bungalow in Cantonments and took the road to the

city.

Threading his way through its tortuous lanes, alleys, slums and bazaars

he reached a low door in the high wall that surrounded an almost

windowless house, knocked in a particular manner, parleyed, and was

admitted.

The moment he was inside, the custodian of the door slammed, locked and

bolted it, and then raised an outcry.

"Come," he shouted in Pushtoo. "The Spy! The Feringhi! The

Pushtoo-knowing English dog, that Abdulali Habbibullah," and he drew his

Khyber knife and circled round Ross-Ellison.

A clatter of heavy boots, the opening of wooden "windows" that looked

inward on to the high-walled courtyard, and in a minute a throng of

Pathans and other Mussulmans entered the compound from the house--some

obviously aroused from heavy slumber.

"It is he," cried one, a squat, broad-shouldered fellow, as they stood

at gaze, and long knives flashed.

"Oho, Spy! Aha, Dog! For what hast thou come?" asked one burly fellow as

he advanced warily upon the intruder, who backed slowly to the angle of

the high walls.

"To die, Hidayetullah. To die, Nazir Ali Khan. To die slaying! Come on!"

was the reply, and in one moment the speaker's Khyber knife flashed from

his loose sleeve into the throat of the nearest foe.

As he withdrew it, the door-keeper slashed at his abdomen, missed by a

hair's-breadth, raised his arm to save his neck from a slash, and was

stabbed to the heart, the knife held dagger-wise. Another Pathan rushing

forward, with uplifted knife held as a sword, was met by a sudden low

fencing-lunge and fell with a hideous wound, and then, whirling his

weapon like a claymore in an invisibly rapid Maltese cross of flashing

steel, the man who had been Ross-Ellison drove his enemies before him,

whirled about, and established himself in the opposite corner, and spat

pungent Border taunts at the infuriated crowd.

"Come on, you village curs, you landless cripples, you wifeless sons of

burnt fathers! Come on! Strike for the credit of your noseless mothers!

Run not from me as your wives ran from you--to better men! Come on, you

sweepers, you swine-herds, you down-country street-scrapers!" and they

came on to heart's content, steel clashed on steel and thudded on flesh

and bone.

"Get a rifle," cried one, lying bleeding on the ground, striving to rise

while he held his right shoulder to his neck with his partly severed

left hand. As he fainted the shoulder gaped horribly.

"Get a cannon," mocked Ross-Ellison. "Get a cannon, dogs, against one

man," and again, whirling the great jade-handled knife, long as a short

sword, he rushed forward and the little mob gave ground before the

irresistible claymore-whirl, the unbreakable Maltese cross described by

the razor-edge and needle-point.

"It is a devil," groaned a man, as his knife and his hand fell together

to the ground, and he clapped his turban on the stump as a boy claps his

hat upon some small creature that he would capture.

The madman whirled about in the third corner and, as he ceased the wild

whirl, ducked low and lunged, lessening the number of his enemies by

one. This lunge was a new thing to men who could only slash and stab, a

new thing and a terrible, for it could not be parried save by seizing

the blade and losing half a hand.

"Come on, you growing maidens! Come on, grandmothers! Come on, you

cleaners of pig-skins, you washers of dogs! Come on!" and as he

shouted, the door crashed down and a patrol of British soldiers,

attracted by the noise, and delayed by the stout door, burst into the

courtyard.

"At the henemy in front, fixed sights," shouted the corporal in charge.

And added an order not to be found in the drill-book: "Blow 'em to 'ell

if they budges."

In the hush of surprise his voice arose, addressing the fighters:

"_Bus_[70] you bleedin' soors,[71]" said Corporal Cook. "_Bus_; and you

_dekho_[72] 'ere. If any of you _jaos_[73] from where 'e is, I'll

_pukkaro_[74] 'im and give 'im a punch in the _dekho_."

[70] Enough, stop.

[71] Swine.

[72] Look.

[73] Jao = go (imperative).

[74] Seize (imperative).

And, as bayonets rose breast-high and fingers curled lovingly round

triggers, every knife but that of Ross-Ellison disappeared as by magic,

and the Corporal beheld a little crowd of innocent men endeavouring to

secure a dangerous lunatic at the risk of their lives--terrible risk, as

the bodies of five dead and dying men might testify.

"I give myself up to you as a murderer, Corporal," said he who had been

Colonel John Robin Ross-Ellison. "I am a murderer. If you will take me

before your officer I will confess and give details."

"I'm agoin' to take you bloomin' well all," replied the surprised

Corporal. "Chuck down that there beastly carvin' knife. You seem a too

'andy cove wiv' it."

At the Corporal's order of, "Prod 'em all up agin that wall and shoot

any bloke as moves 'and or 'oof," the party of panting, bleeding and

perspiring ruffians was lined up, relieved of its weapons, and duly

marched to the guard-room.

Here, one of the gang (later identified as the man who had been known

as John Robin Ross-Ellison, and who insisted that he was a Baluchi)

declared that he had just murdered Mrs. Dearman in her drawing-room and

made a full statement--a statement found to be only too true, its

details corroborated by a trembling _hamal_ who had peeped and listened,

as all Indian servants peep and listen.

* * * * *

Duly tried, all members of the gang received terms of imprisonment

(largely a prophylactic measure), save the extraordinary

English-speaking Baluchi, who had long imposed, it was said, upon

Gungapur Society in the days before that Society had disappeared in the

cataclysm.

A few days before the date fixed for the execution of this very

remarkable desperado, Captain Michael Malet-Marsac, Adjutant of the

Gungapur Volunteer Corps, received two letters dated from Gungapur Jail,

one covering the other. The covering letter ran:--

"MY DEAR MALET-MARSAC,

"I forward the enclosed. Should you desire to attend the execution you

could accompany the new City Magistrate, Wellson, who will doubtless be

agreeable.

"Yours sincerely,

"A. RANALD, Major I.M.S."

The accompaniment was from John Robin Ross-Ellison Mir Ilderim Dost

Mahommed Mir Hafiz Ullah Khan.

"MY DEAR OLD FRIEND,

"For the credit of the British I am pretending to be a Baluchi. I am not

a Baluchi and I hope to die like a Briton--at any rate like a man. I

have been held responsible for what I did when I was not responsible,

and shall be killed in cold blood by sane people, for what I did in hot

blood when quite as mad as any madman who ever lived. I don't

complain--I _ex_plain. I want you to understand, if you can, that it was

not your friend John Ross-Ellison who did that awful deed. It was a

Pathan named Ilderim Dost Mahommed. And yet it was I." ["Poor chap is

mad!" murmured the bewildered and horrified reader who had lived in a

kind of nightmare since the woman he loved had been murdered by the man

he loved. "The strain of the war has been too much for him. He must have

had sunstroke too." He read on, with misty sight.]

"And it is I who will pay the penalty of Ilderim Dost Mahommed's deed.

As I say, I do not complain, and if the Law did not kill me I would

certainly kill myself--to get rid of Ilderim Dost Mahommed.

"I have thought of doing so and cheating the scaffold, but have decided

that Ilderim will get his deserts better if I hang, and I may perhaps

get rid of him, thus, for ever.

"Will you come? I would not ask it of any living soul but you, and I ask

it because your presence would show me that you blindly believe that it

was not John Robin Ross-Ellison who killed poor Mrs. Dearman, and that

would enable me to die quite happy. Your presence would also be a great

help to me. It would help me to feel that, whatever I have lived, I die

a Briton--that if I could not live without Ilderim Dost Mahommed I can

die without him. But this must seem lunatic wanderings to you.

"I apologize for writing to you and I hesitated long. At length I said,

'I will tell him the truth--that the deed was not done by Ross-Ellison

and perhaps he will understand, and come'. Mike--_John Robin

Ross-Ellison did not murder Mrs. Dearman_.

"Your distracted and broken-hearted ex-friend,

"J.R. ROSS-ELLISON."

"He _was_ 'queer' at times," said Captain Michael Malet-Marsac. "There

was a kink somewhere. The bravest, coolest, keenest chap I ever met, the

finest fighting-man, the truest comrade and friend,--and from time to

time something queer peeped out, and one was puzzled.... Madness in the

family, I suppose.... Poor devil, poor, poor devil!" and Captain

Malet-Marsac stamped about and swore, for his eyes tingled and his chin

quivered.

§ 3.

Captain Michael Malet-Marsac alighted from his horse at the great gate

of the Gungapur Jail, loosed girths, slid stirrup irons up the leathers

to the saddle, and handed his reins to the orderly who had ridden behind

him.

"Walk the horses up and down," said he, for both were sweating and the

morning was very cold. Perhaps it was the cold that made Captain Michael

Malet-Marsac's strong face so white, made his teeth chatter and his

hands shake. Perhaps it was the cold that made him feel so sick, and

that weakened the tendons of his knees so that he could scarcely

stand--and would fain have thrown himself upon the ground.

With a curious coughing sound, as though he swallowed and cleared his

throat at the same moment, he commenced to address another order or

remark to the mounted sepoy, choked, and turned his back upon him.

Striding to the gate, he struck upon it loudly with his hunting-crop,

and turning, waved the waiting orderly away.

Not for a king's ransom could he have spoken at that moment. He realized

that something which was rising in his throat must be crushed back and

swallowed before speech would be possible. If he tried to speak before

that was done--he would shame his manhood, he would do that which was

unthinkable in a man and a soldier. What would happen if the little iron

wicket in the great iron door in the greater wooden gates opened before

he had swallowed the lump in his throat, had crushed down the rising

tumult of emotion, and a European official, perhaps Major Ranald

himself, spoke to him? He must either refuse to answer, and show himself

too overcome for speech--or he must--good God forbid it--burst into

tears. He suffered horribly. His skin tingled and he burnt hotly from

head to foot.

And then--he swallowed, his will triumphed--and he was again as

outwardly self-possessed and nonchalant as he strove to appear.

He might tremble, his face might be blanched and drawn, he might feel

physically sick and almost too weak and giddy to stand, but he had

swallowed, he had triumphed over the rising flood that had threatened

to engulf him, and he was, outwardly, himself again. He could go through

with it now, and though his face might be ghastly, his lips white, his

hand uncertain, his gait considered and careful, he would he able to

chat lightly, to meet Ross-Ellison's jest with jest--for that

Ross-Ellison would die jesting he knew....

Why did not the door open? Had his knock gone unheard? Should he knock

again, louder? And then his eye fell upon the great iron bell-pull and

chain, and he stepped towards it. Of course--one entered a place like

this on the sonorous clanging of a deep-throated bell that roused the

echoes of the whole vast congeries of buildings encircled by the hideous

twelve-foot wall, unbroken save by the great gatehouse before which he

stood insignificant. As his shaking hand touched the bell-pull he

suddenly remembered, and withdrew it. He was to meet the City Magistrate

outside the jail and enter with him. He could gain admittance in no

other way.

He looked at his watch. Seventeen minutes to seven. Wellson should be

there in a minute--he had said, "At the jail-entrance at 6.45". God send

him soon or the new-found self-control might weaken and a rising tide

creep up and up until it submerged his will-power again.

With an effort he swallowed, and turning, strode up and down on a rapid,

mechanical sentry-go.

A guard of police-sepoys emerged from a neighbouring guard-room and

"fell in" under the word of command of an Inspector. They were armed

with Martini-Henry rifles and triangular-bladed bayonets, very long.

Their faces looked cruel, the stones of the gate-house and main-guard

looked cruel, the beautiful misty morning looked cruel.

Would that damned magistrate never come? Didn't he know that

Malet-Marsac was fighting for his manhood and terribly afraid? Didn't he

know that unless he came quickly Malet-Marsac would either leap on his

horse and ride it till it fell, or else lose control inside the jail and

either burst into tears, faint, or--going mad--put up a fight for his

friend there in the jail itself, snatch weapons, get back to back with

him and die fighting then and there--or, later, on the same scaffold?

His friend--by whose side he had fought, starved, suffered,

triumphed--his poor two-natured friend....

Could not one of these cursed clever physicians, alienists,

psychologists, hypnotists--whatever they were--have cut the strange

savagery and ferocity out of the splendid John Robin Ross-Ellison?...

A buffalo passed, driven by a barely human lout. The lout was free--the

brainless, soulless bovine lout was free in God's beautiful world--and

Ross-Ellison, soldier and gentleman, lay in a stone cell, and in quarter

of an hour would dangle by the neck in a pit below a platform--perhaps

suffering unthinkable agonies--who could tell?... His old friend and

commandant--

Would Wellson never come? What kept the fellow? It was disgraceful

conduct on the part of a public servant in such circumstances. Think

what an eternity of mental suffering each minute must now be to

Ross-Ellison! What was he doing? What were they doing to him? _Could_

the agony of Ross-Ellison be greater than that of Malet-Marsac? It must

be a thousand times greater. How could that tireless activity, that

restless initiative, that cool courage, that unfathomable ingenuity be

quenched in a second? How could such a wild free nature exist in a cell,

submit to pinioning, be quietly led like a sheep to the slaughter? He

who so loved the mountain, the wild desert, the ocean, the free

wandering life of adventure and exploration.

Would Wellson never come? It must be terribly late. Could they have

hanged Ross-Ellison already? Could he have gone to his death thinking

his friend had failed him; had passed by, like the Levite, on the other

side; had turned up a sanctimonious nose at the letter of the Murderer;

had behaved as some "friends" do behave in time of trouble?

Could he have died thinking this? If so, he must now know the truth, if

the Parsons were right, those unconvincing very-human Parsons of like

passions, and pretence of unlike passions. Could his friend be dead, his

friend whom he had so loved and admired? And yet he was a murderer--and

he had murdered ... _her_....

Captain Michael Malet-Marsac leant against a tree and was violently

sick.

Curse the weak frail body that was failing him in his hour of need! It

had never failed him in battle nor in athletic struggle. Why should it

weaken now. He _would_ see his friend, and bear himself as a man, to

help him in his dreadful hour.

Would that scoundrel never come? He was the one who should be hanged.

A clatter of hoofs behind, and Malet-Marsac turned to see the City

Magistrate trot across the road from the open country. He drew out his

watch accusingly and as a torrent of reproach rose to his white parched

lips, he saw that the time was--exactly quarter to seven.

"'Morning, Marsac," said the City Magistrate as he swung down from the

saddle. "You're looking precious blue about the gills."

"'Morning, Wellson," replied the other shortly.

To the City Magistrate a hanging was no more than a hair-cut, a neither

pleasing nor displeasing interlude, hindering the doing of more

strenuous duties; a nuisance, cutting into his early-morning

report--writing and other judicial work. He handed his reins to an

obsequious sepoy, eased his jodhpores at the knee, and rang the bell.

The grille-cover slid back, a dusky face appeared behind the bars and

scrutinized the visitors, the grille was closed again and the tiny door

opened. Malet-Marsac stepped in over the foot-high base of the door-way

and found himself in a kind of big gloomy strong-room in which were

native warders and a jailer with a bunch of huge keys. On either side of

the room was an office. Following Wellson to a large desk, on which

reposed a huge book, he wrote his name, address, and business,

controlling his shaking hand by a powerful effort of will.

This done, and the entrance-door being again locked, bolted, and barred,

the jailer led the way to another pair of huge gates opposite the pair

through which they had entered, and opened a similar small door therein.

Through this Malet-Marsac stepped and found himself, light-dazzled, in

the vast enclosure of Gungapur Jail, a small town of horribly-similar

low buildings, painfully regular streets, soul-stunning uniformity, and

living death.

"'Morning, Malet-Marsac," said Major Ranald of the Indian Medical

Service, Superintendent of the jail. "You look a bit blue about the

gills, what?"

"'Morning, Ranald," replied Malet-Marsac, "I _am_ a little cold."

Was he really speaking? Was that voice his? He supposed so.

Could he pretend to gaze round with an air of intelligent interest? He

would try.

A line of convicts, clad in a kind of striped sacking, stood with their

backs to a wall while a native warder strode up and down in front of

them, watching another convict placing brushes and implements before

them. Suddenly the warder spoke to the end man, an elderly stalwart

fellow, obviously from the North. The reply was evidently

unsatisfactory, perhaps insolent, for the warder suddenly seized the

grey beard of the convict, tugged his head violently from side to side,

shook him, and then smote him hard on either cheek. The elderly convict

gave no sign of having felt either the pain or the indignity, but gazed

straight over the warder's head. Of what was he thinking? Of what might

be the fate of that warder were he suddenly transported to the wilds of

Kathiawar, to lie at the mercy of his late victim and the famous band of

outlaws whom he had once led to fame--a fame as wide as Ind?

There was something fine about the old villain, once a real Robin Hood,

something mean about the little tyrant.

Had Ranald seen the incident? No, he stood with his back to a buttress

looking in the opposite direction. Did he always stand with a wall

behind him in this terrible place? How could he live in it? A minute of

it made one sick if one were cursed with imagination. Oh, the horror of

the prison system--especially for brave men, men with a code of honour

of their own--possibly sometimes a higher code than that of the average

British politician, not to mention the be-knighted cosmopolitan

financier, friend of princes and honoured of kings.

Could not men be segregated in a place of peace and beauty and improved,

instead of being segregated in a dull hell and crushed? What a home of

soulless, hopeless horror!... And his friend was here.... Could he

contain himself?... He must say something.

"Do you always keep your back to a wall when standing still, in here?"

he asked of Major Ranald.

"I do," was the reply, "and I walk with a trustworthy man close behind

me." "Would you like to go round, sometime?" he added.

"No, thank you," said Malet-Marsac. "I would like to get as far away as

possible and stay there."

Major Ranald laughed.

"Wouldn't like to visit the mortuary and see a post-mortem?"

"No, thank you."

"What about the Holy One?" put in the City Magistrate. "Did you

'autopsy' him? A pleasure to hang a chap like him."

"Yes, the brute. I'll show you his neck vertebrae presently if you like.

Kept 'em as a curiosity. An absolute break of the bone itself. People

talk about pain, strangulation, suffocation and all that. Nothing of

the sort. Literally breaks the neck. Not mere separation of the

vertebrae you know. I'll show you the vertebra itself--clean broken...."

Captain Malet-Marsac swayed on his feet. What should he do? A blue mist

floated before his eyes and a sound of rushing waters filled his ears.

Was he fainting? He must _not_ faint, and fail his friend. And then, the

roar of the waters was pierced and dominated by the voice of that friend

saying--

"Hul_lo_! old bird. Awf'ly good of you to turn out, such a beastly cold

morning."

John Robin Ross-Ellison had come round an adjacent corner, a European

warder on either side of him and another behind him, all three, to their

credit, as white as their white uniforms and helmets. On his head was a

curious bag-like cap.

Ross-Ellison appeared perfectly cheerful, absolutely natural, and

without the slightest outward and visible sign of any form of

perturbation.

"'Morning, Ranald," he continued. "Sorry to be the cause of turning you

out in the cold. Gad! _isn't_ it parky. Hope you aren't going to keep me

standing. If I might be allowed I'd quote unto you the words which a

pretty American girl once used when I asked if I might kiss her--'_Wade

right in, Bub!_'"

"'Fraid I can't 'wade in' till seven o'clock--er--Ross-Ellison,"

answered the horribly embarrassed Major Ranald. "It won't be long."

"Right O, I was only thinking of your convenience. _I'm_ all right,"

said the remarkable criminal, about to suffer by the Mosaic law at the

hands of Christians, to receive Old Testament mercy from the disciples

of the New, to be done-by as he had done.

An Indian clerk, salaaming, joined the group, and prepared to read from

an official-looking document.

"Read," said Major Ranald, and the clerk in a high sing-song voice,

regardless of punctuation, read out the charge, conviction and

death-warrant of the man formerly calling himself John Robin

Ross-Ellison, and now professing and confessing himself to be a Baluchi.

Having finished, the clerk smiled as one well pleased with a duty well

performed, salaamed and clacked away in his heelless slippers.

"It is my duty to inquire whether you have anything to say or any last

request to make," said Major Ranald to the prisoner.

"Well, I've only to say that I'm sorry to cause all this fuss, y'

know--and, well, yes, I _would_ like a smoke," replied the condemned

man, and added hastily: "Don't think I want to delay things for a moment

though--but if there is time...."

"It is four minutes to seven," said Major Ranald, "and tobacco and

matches are not supposed to be found in a Government Jail."

Ross-Ellison winked at the Major and glanced at a bulge on the right

side of the breast of the Major's coat.

At this moment the warder standing behind the condemned man seized both

his wrists, drew them behind him and fastened them with a broad, strong

strap.

"H'm! That's done it, I suppose," said the murderer. "Can't smoke

without my hands. Queer idea too--never thought of it before. Can't

smoke without hands.... Rather late in life to realize it, what?"

"Oh, yes, you can," said the Major, drawing his big silver cheroot-case

from his pocket and selecting a cheroot. Placing it between the

prisoner's lips he struck a match and held it to the end of the cigar.

Ross-Ellison drew hard and the cigar was lit. He puffed luxuriously and

sighed.

"Gad! That's good," he said, "May some one do as much for you, old chap,

when _you_ come to be--er--no, I don't mean that, of course.... Haven't

had a smoke for weeks. Yes--you can smoke without hands after all--but

not for long without feeling the inconvenience. I used to know an

American (wicked old gun-running millionaire he was, Cuba way, and down

South too) who could change his cigar from one corner of his mouth right

across to the other with his tongue. Fascinatin' sight to watch...."

Captain Malet-Marsac swallowed continuously, lest he lose the faculty of

swallowing--and be choked.

Major Ranald looked at his watch.

"Two minutes to seven. Come on," he said, and took the cheroot from the

prisoner's mouth.

"Good-bye, Mike," said that person to the swallowing fainting wretch.

"Don't try and say anything. I know exactly what you feel. Sorry we

can't shake hands," and he stepped off in the wake of Major Ranald,

closely guarded by three warders.

The City Magistrate and Captain Malet-Marsac followed. At Major Ranald's

knock, the small inner door of the gate-house was opened and the

procession filed through it into the strong room where the warders

stood to attention. Having re-fastened the door, the jailer opened the

outer one and the procession passed out of the jail into the blessed

free world, the world that might be such a place of wonder, beauty,

delight, health and joy, were man not educated to materialism, false

ideals, false standards, and blind strife for nothing worth.

The sepoy-guard stood in a semicircle from the gate-house to the

entrance to a door-way in the jail-wall. Ross-Ellison took his last look

at the sky, the distant hills, the trees, God's good world, and then

turned into the doorless door-way with his jailers, and faced the

scaffold in a square, roofless cell. The warder behind him drew the cap

down over his face, and he was led up a flight of shallow stairs on to a

platform on which was a roughly-chalked square where two hinged flaps

met. As he stood on this spot the noose of the greased rope was placed

round his neck by a warder who then looked to Major Ranald for a sign,

received it, and pulled over a lever which withdrew the bolts supporting

the hinged flaps. These fell apart, Ross-Ellison dropped through the

platform, and Christian Society was avenged.

Without a word, Captain Malet-Marsac strode, as in a dream, to his

horse, rode home, and, as in a dream, entered his sanctum, took his

revolver from its holster and loaded it.

Laying it on the table beside him, he sat down to write a few words to

the Colonel of his regiment, Colonel Wilberforce Wriothesley of the 99th

Baluch Light Infantry, and to send his will to a brother-officer whom he

wished to be his executor.

This done, he took up the revolver, placed the muzzle in his mouth, the

barrel pointing upward, and--pulled the trigger.

_Click_!

And nothing more.

A tiny, nerve-shattering, world-shaking, little universe-rocking

_click_--and nothing more.

A bad cartridge. He remembered complaints about the revolver ammunition

from the Duri Small Arms Ammunition Factory. Too long in stock.

Should he try the same one again, or go on to the next? Probably get

better results from the first, as the cap would be already dented by the

concussion. He took the muzzle of the big revolver from his aching mouth

and, releasing the chamber, spun it round.... He would place it to his

temple this time. Holding one's mouth open was undignified. He raised

the revolver--and John Bruce burst into the room. He had seen

Malet-Marsac ride by, and knew where he had been.

"Half a second!" he shouted. "News! Do that afterwards."

"What is it?" asked Malet-Marsac, taken by surprise.

"Put that beastly thing in the drawer while I tell you, then. It might

go off. I hate pistols," said Bruce.

Malet-Marsac obeyed. Bruce was a man to be listened to, and what had to

be done could be done when he had gone. If it were some last piece of

duty or service, it should be seen to.

"It is this," said Bruce. "You are a liar, a forger, a thief, a dirty

pickpocket, a coward, a seller of secrets to Foreign Powers," and, ere

the astounded soldier could speak, John Bruce sprang at him and tried to

knock him out. "Take that you greasy cad--and fight me if you dare," he

shouted as the other dodged his punch.

Malet-Marsac sprang to his feet, furious, and returned the blow. In a

second the men were fighting fiercely, coolly, murderously.

Bruce was the bigger, stronger, more scientific, and there could be but

one result, given ordinary luck. It was a long, severe, and punishing

affair.

"Time," gasped Malet-Marsac at length, and dropped his hands.

"Get--breath--fight--decently--time--'nother round--after," and as he

spoke Bruce knocked him down and out, proceeding instantly to tie his

feet with the punkah-cord and his hands with two handkerchiefs and a

pair of braces. This done, he carried him into his bedroom, and laid him

on the bed, and sprinkled his face with water.

Malet-Marsac blinked and stirred.

"Awful sorry, old chap," said Bruce at length. "I thought it the best

plan. Will you give me your word to chuck the suicide idea, or do you

want some more?"

"You damned fool! I...." began the trussed one.

"Yes, I know--but I solemnly swear I won't untie you, nor let anybody

else, until you've promised."

Malet-Marsac swore violently, struggled valiantly and, anon, slept.

When he awoke, ten hours later, he informed Bruce, sitting by the bed,

that he had no intention of committing suicide....

Years later, as a grey-haired Major, he learnt, from the man's own

brother, the story of the strange hero who had fascinated him, and of

whose past he had known nothing--save that it had been that of a _man_.

End of Project Gutenberg's Driftwood Spars, by Percival Christopher Wren