Then eight shots rang out—­and it sufficed.

At the voice of the rifle, the sting of buckshot, valour and fury evaporated like smoke.  And directly the crowd broke, firing ceased.  A few were wounded; one was killed—­and carried off with loud lamentations.  An ordered advance, with fixed bayonets, completed the effect that nothing else on earth could have produced:—­and the Grand Processional was over.

It emerged from the Bathi Gate a shadow of itself, having left more than half its numbers on guard at vital points along the route.

“Scotched—­not killed,” was Lance’s pithy verdict on the proceedings.  “As a bit of mere police work—­excellent.  As to the result—­we shall see.  The C.O. must have been thankful his force wasn’t a shade weaker.”

This, unofficially, to Roy, who had secured leave off for tiffin at the Eltons’, and had ridden forward to report his departure and inquire after the damaged hand, that concerned him more than anything else just then—­not even excepting Rose.

It had been roughly wrapped in a silk handkerchief; and Lance pooh-poohed concern.

“Hurts a bit, of course.  But it’s no harm.  I’ll have it scientifically cleaned up by Collins.  Don’t look pathetic about nothing, old man.  My silly fault for failing to ride the beggar down.  Just as well it isn’t your hand, you know.  Unpleasant—­for the women.”

“Oh, it’s all very well,” Roy muttered awkwardly.  Lance in that vein had him at a disadvantage, always.

“Don’t be too late,” he added, as Roy turned to go.  “We may be needed.  Those operatic performers in the City aren’t going to sit twiddling their thumbs by the look of them.  When’s ... the departure?”

“To-morrow or next day, I think.”

“Good job.”  A pause.  “Give them my regards.  And don’t make a tale over my hand.”

“I shall tell the truth,” said Roy with decision.  “And I’ll be back about six.”

He saluted and rode off; the prospective thrill of making love to Rose damped by the fact that he had not been able to look Lance in the eyes.

Things couldn’t go on like this.  And yet...?  Impossible to ask Rose outright whether there had been anything definite between them.  If she said “No,” he would not believe her:—­detestable, but true.  If she—­well ... if in any way he found she had treated Lance shabbily, he might find it hard to control himself—­or forgive her:  equally detestable and equally true.  But uncertainty was more intolerable still....

He found the household ready for immediate flitting, and Mrs Elton in a fluster of wrath and palpitation over startling news from Kasur.