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?”