But, eager as he was to get back to Calcutta and join Mr. Merriman in searching for them, he had a strange certainty that it was not to be.  The faintness that he had already felt returned.  His head was burning and throbbing; his ears buzzed; his limbs ached; his whole frame was seized at moments with paroxysms of shivering which no effort could control.  Unknown to himself the seeds of malarial fever had found a lodgment in his system.  While listening to Toley’s story, he had reclined on the ground.  When he tried to rise, he was overcome by giddiness and nausea.

“I am done up,” he continued.  “Mr. Toley, you must take charge and get these goods conveyed to Calcutta.  Lose no time.”

Surendra Nath recognized the symptoms of the disease, and immediately had a litter improvised for Desmond out of the linen covering of one of the carts and a couple of muskets.  Mr. Toley at once made preparations for moving on with the convoy.  The hackeriwallahs who had driven off the cattle had not gone far; they had waited in the hope of getting the bakshish promised them—­if not from the young sahib, at least from the leader of the attacking party, which from its numbers they believed would gain the day.

The oxen were soon yoked up.  Mr. Toley would not wait to recover the loads of the carts that had toppled into the nullah, nor would he leave men for that purpose, lest another attack should be made on them from Hugli.  He set off as soon as the teams were ready.  Half an hour after they started, Bulger, walking beside the litter, saw to his dismay that Desmond had lost consciousness.

It was nearly a fortnight later when Desmond came to himself in his old bunk on board the Hormuzzeer.  He was alone.  Lying on his back, feebly trying to adjust his thoughts to his surroundings, he heard the faint boom of guns.  What was happening?  He tried to rise, but all power was gone from him; he could hardly lift an arm.  Even the slight effort was too much for him, and he swooned again.

When he once more recovered consciousness, he saw a figure by his side.  It was Mr. Toley.  Again the distant thunder of artillery fell upon his ears.

“What is happening?” he asked feebly.

“Almighty be praised!” said Toley fervently, “you’re coming safe to port.  Hush!  Lie you still.  You’ll want nussin’ like a babby.  Never you heed the popguns; I’ll tell you all about them when you’re stronger.  Food, sleep, and air; that’s my catechism, larned from the surgeon.  Bless you, Burke, I feared you was a done man.”

With this Desmond had to be for the time content.  But every day he heard firing, and every day, as he slowly regained strength, he became more and more anxious to know what it meant.  Toley seemed to have left the ship; Desmond was tended only by natives.

From them he learned that the Nawab was attacking Calcutta.  How were the defenders faring?  They could not tell.  He knew how small was the garrison, how weak the fortifications; but, with an English lad’s unconquerable faith in his countrymen’s valor, he could not believe that they could fail to hold their own.