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?