He was known as the Gorilla by reason of his long arms, incredible strength, beauty, and pleasing habits, and he bore the reputation of a merciless and unchivalrous opponent and one who needed the strictest and most experienced refereeing.  It would be a real terrific fight, and that was the main thing to Dam, though he would do his very utmost to win, for the credit of the Queen’s Greys, and would leave no stone unturned to that end.  He regretted that he could not get leave and go to Pultanpur to see the Champion box, and learn something of his style and methods when easily defending his title in the Pultanpur tournament.  And when the Tournament and Assault-at-Arms were over he must find something else to occupy him by day and tire him before night.  Meanwhile life was bearable, with the fight to come—­except for sentry-go work.  That was awful, unspeakable, and each time was worse than the last.  Sitting up all night in the guard-room under the big lamp, and perhaps with some other wakeful wretch to talk to, was nothing.  That was well enough—­but to be on a lonely post on a dark night ... well—­he couldn’t do it much longer.

Darkness and the Snake that was always coming and never came!  To prowl round and round some magazine, store, or boundary-stone with his carbine at the “support,” or to tramp up and down by the horse-lines, armed only with his cutting-whip; to stand in a sentry-box while the rain fell in sheets and there was no telling what the next flash of lightning might reveal—­that was what would send him to a lunatic’s padded cell.

To see the Snake by day would give him a cruel, terrible fit—­but to be aware of it in the dark would be final—­and fatal to his reason (which was none too firmly enthroned).  No, he had the dreadful feeling that his reason was none too solidly based and fixed.  He had horrible experiences, apart from the snake-nightmares, nowadays.  One night when he awoke and lay staring up at his mosquito-curtain in the blessed light of the big room-lamp (always provided in India on account of rifle thieves) he had suddenly felt an overwhelming surge of fear.  He sat up.  God!—­he was in a marble box!  These white walls and roof were not mosquito-netting, they were solid marble!  He was in a tomb.  He was buried alive.  The air was growing foul.  His screams would be absolutely inaudible.  He screamed, and struck wildly at the cold cruel marble, and found it was soft, yielding netting after all.  But it was a worse horror to find that he had thought it marble than if he had found it to be marble.  He sprang from his cot.

“I am going mad,” he cried.

“Goin’?... Gorn, more like,” observed the disrobing room-corporal.  “Why donchew keep orf the booze, Maffewson?  You silly gapin’ goat.  Git inter bed and shut yer ’ead—­or I’ll get yew a night in clink, me lad—­and wiv’out a light, see?”

Corporal Prag knew his victim’s little weakness and grinned maliciously as Dam sprang into bed without a word.