Miss Benson walked up to him with fierce eyes.

“You dog!” she cried bitterly in Urdu.

The man who had smiled defiantly when the hands of his raging comrades were seeking to tear the life out of his body and had shouted out his crime in their faces, cowered before the anger in the flaming eyes of this frail girl.  He shrank back between his guards.  The sepoys looking on howled like hungry wolves and, as Mrs. Dermot drew the girl back, made a rush for the murderer.  The men of the guard faced them with levelled bayonets and ringed their prisoner round; and the sepoys fell back sullenly.

Suddenly a shrill voice cried in Hindustani: 

“Make way!  Make way there!  What has happened?”

The circle of men gapped and through the opening came Major Hunt, white-faced, wasted, shaking with fever and clad only in pyjamas and a great coat and with bare feet thrust into unlaced shoes.  He staggered feebly in among them, revolver in hand.

“Heaven and Earth!  Is Wargrave dead?” he cried and tottered towards the stretcher.

Suddenly the pistol dropped from his shaking hand and he fell forward on the stones before Macdonald could catch him.

“This is madness,” muttered the doctor.  “It may kill him.  I hoped he wouldn’t hear the alarm.”

“Bring him to my house too,” said Mrs. Dermot.

Another stretcher was fetched, the Major lifted tenderly into it, and the sad procession started, the sepoys falling back silently to make way.

Major Hunt having been put to bed in one of the guest-rooms of the Political Officer’s house, Macdonald, with the aid of the subaltern’s servant, undressed Wargrave and examined his injuries, Noreen holding a basin for him while Muriel, shuddering, carried away the blood-tinged water and brought fresh.  The shot-wound, though severe, was not necessarily dangerous, and the bullet had not lodged in him.  The doctor was relieved to find that the bayonet had not penetrated deeply but had only glanced along a rib, tearing the intercostal muscles and inflicting a long, jagged but superficial wound which bled freely.  Indeed, the most serious matter was the great loss of blood, which had weakened the subaltern considerably.

Wargrave did not recover consciousness until early morning.  When he opened his eyes they fell on Muriel sitting by his bed.  He showed no surprise and the girl, scarce daring to believe that he was awake and knew her, did not venture to move.  But as he continued to look steadily at her she gently laid her hand on his where it lay on the coverlet.

Then in a weak voice he said: 

“Dearest, I mustn’t love you, I mustn’t.  I’m bound in honour—­bound to another woman and I must play the game.  It’s hard sometimes.  But if I die I want you to know I loved you, only you.”