“Well, if that’s true, what you said won’t make him vain.  This information is valuable:  you see that.  Have you heard anything more from the lad?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“And you can’t communicate with him?”

“No, ’twas a part of his scheme never to let me know his whereabouts, in case the messages miscarried.”

“So; ’twas his scheme, not yours?”

“Egad, sir, I’ve no head for that sort of thing,” said Killpatrick with a laugh.  “Give me a company, and a wall to scale or a regiment to charge, and—­”

“My dear fellow,” interrupted Clive, “we all know the king has no better officer.  Credit where credit is due, major, and you’re not the man to grudge this youngster his full credit for an uncommonly daring and clever scheme.  Did you see him in his disguise?”

“I did, sir, and at a distance he took in both Mr. Merriman and myself.”

“Well, he’s a boy to keep an eye on, and I only hope that tigers or dacoits or the Nawab’s Moors won’t get hold of him; he’s the kind of lad we can’t spare.  Now, let me know the state of your troops.”

When he had sent off his note to Major Killpatrick, Desmond enjoyed a short spell on deck preparatory to turning in.  Hossain was placidly smoking his hubblebubble; from the far bank of the Hugli came the mingled sounds of tom toms and other instruments; near the boat all was quiet, the wavelets of the stream lapping idly against the sides, the stillness broken only by the occasional howl of a jackal prowling near the bank in quest of the corpses of pious Hindus consigned to the sacred waters of the Ganges.

Desmond was half dozing when he was startled into wakefulness by a sudden clamor from the native town.  He heard shots, loud cries, the hideous blare of the Bengal trumpets.  For half an hour the shouts continued intermittently; then they gradually died away.

Wondering whether the tamasha had ended in a tumult, Desmond was about to seek his couch, when, just beneath him, as it seemed, he heard a voice—­a feeble cry for help.  He sprang up and looked over the side.  Soon a dark head appeared on the water.  With a cry to the serang to cast loose and row after him, Desmond took a header into the stream, and with a few strokes gained the drowning man’s side.

He was clearly exhausted.  Supporting him with one arm, Desmond struck out with the other, and being a strong swimmer he reached the stern of the boat even before the serang had slipped his moorings.  With Hossain’s aid he lifted the man into the boat, and carried him to the cabin.  He was all but unconscious.

A mouthful of arrack {fermented liquor made from rice or the juice of the palm} from the serang’s jar revived him.  No sooner was he in command of his breath than he implored his rescuers for their help and protection.  He had escaped, he said, from Hugli Fort, not without a gunshot wound behind his shoulder.  He spoke in Bengali.  Seeing that he was too much exhausted and agitated to tell his story that night, Desmond bade the serang assure him of his safety.  Then they made shift to tend his wound, and, comforting him with food and drink, left him to sleep and recover.