“Who’s that?” he asked in a low voice; he asked the question in Pushtu, and in Pushtu a voice no louder than his own replied: 

“I want to speak to Poulteney Sahib.”

A startled exclamation broke from the subaltern.  “It’s my shikari,” he said, and thrusting open the shutter he leaned out.

“Well, what news do you bring?” he asked; and at the answer Captain Phillips for the first time since he had entered into his twilit hall had a throb of hope.  The expeditionary troops from Nowshera, advancing by forced marches, were already close to the borders of Chiltistan.  News had been brought to the Palace that evening.  Shere Ali had started with every man he could collect to take up the position where he meant to give battle.

“I must hurry or I shall be late,” said the shikari, and he crawled away through the orchard.

Phillips closed the shutter again and lit the lamp.  The news seemed too good to be true.  But the morning broke over a city of women and old men.  Only the watchmen remained at their posts about the Residency grounds.

CHAPTER XXXIV

ONE OF THE LITTLE WARS

The campaign which Shere Ali directed on the borders of Chiltistan is now matter of history, and may be read of, by whoso wills, in the Blue-books and despatches of the time.  Those documents, with their paragraphs and diaries and bare records of facts, have a dry-as-dust look about them which their contents very often belie.  And the reader will not rise from the story of this little war without carrying away an impression of wild fury and reckless valour which will long retain its colours in his mind.  Moreover, there was more than fury to distinguish it.  Shere Ali turned against his enemies the lessons which they had taught him; and a military skill was displayed which delayed the result and thereby endangered the position of the British troops.  For though at the first the neighbouring tribes and states, the little village republics which abound in those parts, waited upon the event as Phillips had foretold, nevertheless as the days passed, and the event still hung in the balance, they took heart of grace and gathered behind the troops to destroy their communications and cut off their supplies.

Dick Linforth wrote three letters to his mother, who was living over again the suspense and terror which had fallen to her lot a quarter of a century ago.  The first letter was brought to the house under the Sussex Downs at twilight on an evening of late autumn, and as she recognized the writing for her son’s a sudden weakness overcame her, and her hand so shook that she could hardly tear off the envelope.