The face staring in horror between the heads of the sepoys was hurriedly withdrawn, and Mahbub Khan, who had lingered to see the end of the tragedy, turned and pushed his way out of the crowd.

Macdonald found the subaltern lying to all appearances dead on the broken door out in the open, where they had gently carried him.

“Hold a light here,” he cried as he knelt down beside the body.

By now a dozen lanterns or more lit up the scene.  The doctor laid his ear against Wargrave’s chest and held a polished cigarette case to his lips.  Then he pulled back the shirt to examine his injuries.

“Oh, is he dead?  Is he dead?” cried a trembling voice.

The doctor, looking up angrily, found Miss Benson and Mrs. Dermot standing over him.  The sepoys had silently made way for them.

“You shouldn’t be here, ladies,” he said with justifiable annoyance.  “This is no place for you.  No; he’s not dead.  And I hope and think that he won’t die.”

“Oh, thank God!” cried the two women.

The sepoys crowding round and hanging on the doctor’s verdict could not understand the words but saw the look of joyous relief on their faces and guessed the truth.  A wild, confused cheer went up to the stars.

“Mr. Macdonald,” said Mrs. Dermot bending over him again.  “Will you bring him to my house?  There is no accommodation for him in your little hospital, you know; and he’d have no one to look after him in the Mess.  I can nurse him.”

The doctor straightened himself on his knee and looked down at the unconscious man.

“Yes, Mrs. Dermot, it’s a good idea,” he replied.  “There is nowhere else where he’d get any attention.  My hands are full with Major Hunt.  He’s taken a turn for the worse.  His temperature went up dangerously high to-night; and he was almost delirious.”

He stood up.

“I can’t examine Wargrave properly here.  He seems to be wounded in two places.  But I hope it’s not—­I mean, I think he’ll pull through.  His pulse is getting stronger.  I’ve put a first dressing on; and I think we can move him.  Hi! stretcher idher lao. (Bring the stretcher here!)”

Suddenly Wargrave opened his eyes and looked up in the doctor’s face.

“Is that you, Macdonald?” he asked dreamily.  “Never mind me; I’m all right.  Go to poor Ashraf Khan.  If he must die, at least give him something to put him out of his misery.  I can wait.”

His voice trailed off, and he relapsed into unconsciousness.  Ordering him to be carried away the doctor, after a word with the Indian officers, entered the barrack-room.  It was useless.  Ashraf Khan had just died.

The crowd fell back in a wide circle to let the two hospital orderlies bring up the stretcher for Wargrave and, as they did, left a group of men standing isolated in the centre.  All of these were armed, except one whose hands were pinioned behind his back.  His head was bare, his face bruised and bleeding, and his uniform nearly torn off his body.  It needed no telling that he was the murderer.