“There are now forty-four cigarettes,” he reflected.  “At six a day they will last a week.  In a week something will have happened.  Either the relieving force will be here, or—­yes, decidedly something will have happened.”  And as he blew the smoke out from between his lips he added solemnly:  “If not to us, to the Political Officer.”

Meanwhile Luffe paced the roof of the fort in the darkness.  The fort was built in the bend of a swift, wide river, and so far as three sides were concerned was securely placed.  For on three the low precipitous cliffs overhung the tumbling water.  On the fourth, however, the fertile plain of the valley stretched open and flat up to the very gates.

In front of the forts a line of sangars extended, the position of each being marked even now by a glare of light above it, which struck up from the fire which the insurgents had lit behind the walls of stone.  And from one and another of the sangars the monotonous beat of a tom-tom came to Luffe’s ears.

Luffe walked up and down for a time upon the roof.  There was a new sangar to-night, close to the North Tower, which had not existed yesterday.  Moreover, the almond trees in the garden just outside the western wall were in blossom, and the leaves upon the branches were as a screen, where only the bare trunks showed a fortnight ago.

But with these matters Luffe was not at this moment concerned.  They helped the enemy, they made the defence more arduous, but they were trivial in his thoughts.  Indeed, the siege itself was to him an unimportant thing.  Even if the fortress fell, even if every man within perished by the sword—­why, as Lynes had said, the Sirkar does not forget its servants.  The relieving force might march in too late, but it would march in.  Men would die, a few families in England would wear mourning, the Government would lose a handful of faithful servants.  England would thrill with pride and anger, and the rebellion would end as rebellions always ended.

Luffe was troubled for quite another cause.  He went down from the roof, walked by courtyard and winding passage to the quarters of the Khan.  A white-robed servant waited for him at the bottom of a broad staircase in a room given up to lumber.  A broken bicycle caught Luffe’s eye.  On the ledge of a window stood a photographic camera.  Luffe mounted the stairs and was ushered into the Khan’s presence.  He bowed with deference and congratulated the Khan upon the birth of his heir.

“I have been thinking,” said the Khan—­“ever since my son was born I have been thinking.  I have been a good friend to the English.  I am their friend and servant.  News has come to me of their cities and colleges.  I will send my son to England, that he may learn your wisdom, and so return to rule over his kingdom.  Much good will come of it.”  Luffe had expected the words.  The young Khan had a passion for things English.  The bicycle and the camera were signs of it.  Unwise men had applauded his enlightenment.  Unwise at all events in Luffe’s opinion.  It was, indeed, greatly because of his enlightenment that he and a handful of English officers and troops were beleaguered in the fortress.