A little clock in the room began to strike in silvery tones, and he glanced up.  The next instant he bent and laid a bony hand upon her two clasped ones.

“Can’t you decide?” he said.  “Will you let me decide for you?  Don’t let yourself get scared.  You have kept so strong till now.”  Firmly as he spoke, there was somehow a note of soothing in his voice, and almost insensibly the girl was moved by it.  She remained silent and motionless, but the strong grip of his fingers comforted her subtly notwithstanding.

“Come,” he said, “listen a moment and let me tell you my plan of campaign.  It is very simple, and for that reason it is going to succeed.  You are listening now?”

His tone was vigorous and insistent.  Muriel sat slowly up in response to it.  She looked down at the thin hand that grasped hers, and wondered at its strength; but she lacked the spirit at that moment to resent its touch.

He leaned down upon the table, his face close to hers, and began to unfold his plan.

“We shall leave the fort directly the moon is down.  I have a disguise for you that will conceal your face and hair.  And I shall fake as a tribesman, so that my dearest friend would never recognise me.  They will be collecting the wounded in the dark, and I will carry you through on my shoulder as if I had got a dead relation.  You won’t object to playing a dead relation of mine?”

He broke into a sudden laugh, but sobered instantly when he saw her shrink at the sound.

“That’s about all the plan,” he resumed.  “There is nothing very alarming about it, for they will never spot us in the dark.  I’m as yellow as a Chinaman already.  We shall be miles away by morning.  And I know how to find my way afterwards.”

He paused, but Muriel made no comment.  She was staring straight before her.

“Can you suggest any amendments?” he asked.

She turned her head and looked at him with newly-roused aversion in her eyes.  She had summoned all her strength to the combat, realising that now was the moment for resistance if she meant to resist.

“No, Mr. Ratcliffe,” she said, with a species of desperate firmness very different from his own.  “I have nothing to suggest.  If you wish to escape, you must go alone.  It is quite useless to try to persuade me any further.  Nothing—­nothing will induce me to leave my father.”

Whether or not he had expected this opposition was not apparent on Nick’s face.  It betrayed neither impatience nor disappointment.

“There would be some reason in that,” he gravely rejoined, “if you could do any good to your father by remaining.  Of course I see your point, but it seems to me that it would be harder for him to see you starve with the rest of the garrison than to know that you had escaped with me.  A woman in your position is bound to be a continual burden and anxiety to those who protect her.  The dearer she is to them, so much the heavier is the burden.  Miss Roscoe, you must see this.  You are not an utter child.  You must realise that to leave your father is about the greatest sacrifice you can make for him at the present moment.  He is worn out with anxiety on your behalf, literally bowed down by it.  For his sake, you are going to do this thing, it being the only thing left that you can do for him.”